


Lover of the Light

by areyoumiserableyet



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Rock Band, Blogger!Enjolras, English!Grantaire, Exes, Famous!Grantaire, Flashbacks, Grantaire’s band is Mumford and Sons lol, Infidelity, M/M, Pianist!Enjolras, Recreational Drug Use, Rockstar!Grantaire, Slow Burn, Songfic, Unhealthy Relationships, but not (e/r), trust me there’s lots of excellent e/r content in their repetoire
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-29
Updated: 2020-09-05
Packaged: 2021-02-19 10:29:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 43,491
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22009537
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/areyoumiserableyet/pseuds/areyoumiserableyet
Summary: R is an international rock star. R is also Enjolras’s ex-boyfriend. It is now four years after their break up and Enjolras has it all - a career as a successful LGBTQ activism blogger and a handsome, kind civil rights attorney boyfriend. Life is great. Cue Grantaire.
Relationships: Enjolras/Grantaire (Les Misérables)
Comments: 87
Kudos: 145





	1. How it Began

Enjolras had two loves in his life. The first was his activism. The second was music.

  
Enjolras discovered his passion for both around the same time. Growing up, he was fascinated by the Gay Rights Movement, idolizing queer activists, tracking their momentum. He loved learning about the history of his community well before he realized that it _was_ his community. He was only seven when he realized boys couldn’t marry boys and girls couldn’t marry girls. Some older kids at school were bullying him because he and his best friend, Combeferre, had excitedly announced that they were getting married. _Boys can’t marry boys, Enjolras! That’s gross! You’re supposed to marry a girl!_ Enjolras was so confused and upset that he’d immediately burst into tears the second he climbed into his mother’s SUV at the end of the day. His mother had immediately driven the two of them to get ice cream, and she patiently explained to Enjolras that it was perfectly okay - beautiful, even - for boys to love boys, and that sometimes people can just be cruel.

  
“Sometimes people have darkness in their hearts, Enjolras,” she had said, leaning forward to hold her son’s tiny hands in her own. “But, it’s people like you, sweetheart, who will fill them up with light.”

  
“So, I _can_ marry Combeferre?” Enjolras had asked then, his voice still sounding a little weepy - although his hot fudge sundae was doing wonders to ease the pain of his little, broken heart.

  
“By the time you’re a grown up?” his mom had pondered thoughtfully. She gave Enjolras’s hands a quick squeeze and said, “I sincerely hope so.”

  
(Fifteen years later, a 22-year-old Enjolras would stand crying in front of the United States Supreme Court Building as same-sex marriage is finally legalized in all 50 states. Enjolras would turn to grin at his best friends in the whole world, would watch as the two of them kissed and cried and held onto each other for dear life, would laugh as Courfeyrac turned to kiss him next, smearing rainbow face paint across Enjolras’s nose. He would be brimming with an indescribable elation, and still, he would ache for something. For someone.

  
There was a time - not too long ago - that Enjolras thought he’d be celebrating this day with a ring.)

  
He would like to say that the bullying stopped there - when he was seven. But Enjolras was gay - obviously so - and he looked too feminine and wore his hair too long. So, as one can imagine, the bullying followed him well into his teen years, making high school almost unbearable if it weren’t for Combeferre and Courfeyrac.

  
Music was his respite.

  
Enjolras first started writing songs when he was nine years old. Originally, he wrote songs to say all the things he wished he was brave enough to say to his bullies. The first one was called I Win, You Lose, and the lyrics were pretty much those four words over and over. He sang it for his mom and dad with zero understanding of tone or melody. Still, he’d received a standing ovation.

  
At age twelve, his parents bought him a keyboard for Christmas. He started actually composing music then, teaching himself how to play through books he borrowed from the library and listening to songs over and over and trying to mimic the notes. Eventually, Enjolras became a pretty decent pianist and an even better songwriter.

  
Enjolras had always had a way with words - he made almost $100k a year writing a blog, after all - but he enjoyed the freedom that came with putting those words to music. There were less rules in songs, more ways to bend your message and make your point. He loved that. Loved using words in surprising and meaningful ways. Loved being able to make people feel something.

  
Yes, Enjolras loved music. But, right now, Enjolras hated the piano.

  
He hated everyone who could play the piano. He hated the person who invented the piano. He hated anyone who had ever said the word piano. _Hated it, hated it, hated it!_

  
“Woah.”

  
Enjolras spun around at the sound of a voice and blushed when he realized he’d said all that out loud, punctuating his frustration by slamming his entire hand down on the keys.

  
“What’d the ivory do to you?”

  
The voice belonged to a young man with wild jet-black curls that fell into his eyes and down around his ears. He had a large, prominent nose, and there was a hump on the bridge as if it had been broken more than once. Enjolras couldn’t help but admire the smattering of moles that dotted his face.

  
( _They’re your beauty marks_ , Enjolras would say, tapping each one with his finger. Grantaire would close his eyes and smile. _I love them_.)

  
What really struck Enjolras the most, though, were his eyes. The man stared back at him with deep, rich brown eyes that seemed to see right through him. It actually gave him goosebumps.

  
“What are you doing here?” Enjolras asked, once he snapped himself out of his staring. He was at Fantine’s, a bar slash performance space that Enjolras had recently started frequenting since it was very near his new apartment. It was owned by a man named Valjean, whom Enjolras had immediately bonded with after learning of his political past. When they first met, they talked for two hours about Valjean living through the height of the AIDS crisis, his frustration with a country that allowed his friends to die all around him, scared, alone, and ashamed. When they got to his subsequent involvement in ACT UP!, they were instant friends. So when Enjolras had mentioned that he was going to have to find a new place to practice now that he’d moved out of his parents’ home, Valjean had tossed him a spare key and invited him to use it whenever.

  
“I could ask you the same thing,” the man replied, crossing his arms over his chest with a smile. “I work here.”

  
“I’ve never seen you here before,” Enjolras said, eyeing the stranger warily. It’d be just his luck to be caught up in some sort of weird, daylight robbery.

  
“I’ve been on holiday,” the man answered, moving closer to the piano and Enjolras.  
Enjolras squinted his eyes suspiciously; this man did not look like someone who’d just gotten back from a vacation. His face was washed out, there were dark circles underneath his eyes, and his lips were dry and cracking. Frankly, he looked like shit.

  
The man must have sensed Enjolras’ wariness because he simply laughed and said, “I never said it was a good holiday, mate.” Enjolras remained unconvinced, one eyebrow titled accusingly, so the man unzipped his jacket to reveal an old, well-washed t-shirt, the name Fantine’s printed on the front in fancy script.

  
“Right, sorry,” Enjolras amended quickly, feeling rude and embarrassed. “It’s just - well, Valjean trusted me to watch the place when I’m using it and I don’t want to lose that trust.”

  
“I understand,” the man agreed, nodding his head. Enjolras couldn’t help but admire the way that made his curls bounce around his face. “I work here. Scouts honor. I just had to come in early today to do inventory.”

  
“Right, okay,” Enjolras nodded, half-turning his body toward the piano to indicate he needed to get back to practicing. When the stranger only moved closer, Enjolras prompted, saying, “Well, if you don’t mind...”

  
“Oh! Yeah, man. No worries,” he replied quickly, much to Enjolras’ relief. The man moved to leave the room, and Enjolras turned his back to him, resting his hands atop the piano once more. He was about to commence the utter embarrassment that “Aladdin Sane” was turning out to be when he heard the man’s voice again.

  
“Your back is too straight.”

  
Annoyed, Enjolras wheeled around. “What?”

  
“Your back - I, uh, I didn’t think it was possible but your back is too straight. And your fingers are too tense. Just relax, man. It’ll help.” And with that, he turned to go, leaving Enjolras to wonder what the hell _he_ knew about the piano.

The man knew a lot, apparently, and much to Enjolras’ surprise. Grantaire was a fantastic piano player.

  
Their run-ins became somewhat of a routine after a while, with Enjolras struggling his way through songs and Grantaire offering unsolicited advice that Enjolras was too proud to take. It annoyed him to no end, the little quips of _wrists, Enjolras, it’s all in the wrists_ and _fluidity, man, your movements should be fluid_ until finally, Enjolras got fed up and yelled, “Why don’t you play it then, if you’re such an expert!?”

  
With a satisfied grin, Grantaire nodded toward the keys and Enjolras scooted over to allow him room on the bench, already regretting his decision.

  
Grantaire sat down, making Enjolras hyper-aware of how his thigh was pressed up against Grantaire’s and he tried to shake the thought from his head.

  
“You know what they say. Piano is one of the easiest instruments to learn and the hardest to master,” he said with an exaggerated arrogance. With a dramatic flourish that just made Enjolras roll his eyes, Grantaire rested his hands on the keys and began to play...  
“Twinkle Twinkle Little Star.”

  
“Oh my god, I knew you were full of shit!” Enjolras yelled, shoving Grantaire off the piano bench. “Just, get back to work.”

  
Grantaire lifted his hands in the air in a surrender, his mouth pulled into a grin and those electric eyes sparkling. Teasing. Enjolras blushed.

  
He was about to get back to practicing when he felt Grantaire’s presence behind him, much closer than before.

  
“What are you-” Enjolras started to ask, but is silenced as Grantaire’s arms appear in his peripheral vision, his fingers resting on the keys.

  
He was extraordinary. Gifted in every sense of the word. His hands moved across the keys with a grace that was the exact opposite of Grantaire. When not playing, Grantaire’s all awkward limbs and languid laziness, but, even with Enjolras obstructing his movements, he played with ease.

  
Meanwhile, Enjolras was frozen in place. Grantaire’s chest was pressed against his back, his breath hot against his cheek, and his arms clenched around his shoulders as his fingers danced deftly over the keys.  
He played a medley of classic and modern, familiar and foreign, and he transitioned seamlessly into each new melody in a way that would be showing off if it wasn’t so damn beautiful.

  
“Should I stop?” Grantaire asked smugly, his voice a low rumble in his throat. A small part of Enjolras wanted to say no. He knew Grantaire was making fun of him, he knew this, but his playing was so beautiful and his face was so close and he really didn’t want it to ever end.

  
“Yeah okay, I get it,” Enjolras made himself say instead, and Grantaire stopped playing abruptly, the final notes sounding throughout the empty bar. Grantaire stood up and the lack of proximity threw Enjolras off to a point that he almost felt dizzy. Ignoring that, Enjolras turned around to a Grantaire that was entirely too pleased with himself. “That was...” Enjolras, not knowing how to finish, settled on, “Wow.”

  
“Thank you for that assessment, Apollo,” Grantaire said, bowing a bit for show. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to, as you so pleasantly reminded me, get back to work.”

  
Enjolras was in such a state of shock that it took him several minutes to register what Grantaire had said. Shaking himself, Enjolras got up and made his way across the pub to the bar where Grantaire was opening the register for the day, his back to Enjolras.

  
“What did you call me?” Enjolras asked without preamble, and Grantaire startled.

  
“Uh...when?” Grantaire asked, seeming genuinely confused.

  
“Just then, when you...” Enjolras started, not knowing how to finish. _When you played the piano like a fucking prodigy or when you casually wormed your way into the front of my mind with your fucking eyes._

  
“Oh, that,” Grantaire said, laughing as he pulled out bottle after bottle of liquor from underneath the bar. To inventory, most likely. Enjolras watched his movements closely, noted the way his hands shook almost imperceptibly and how he clenched and unclenched his jaw. Before Enjolras could make any sort of sense of those observations, he continued. “I called you ‘Apollo’.”

  
“Like the Greek god?” Enjolras asked, confused.

  
“The very same,” Grantaire answered breezily.

  
“Why?”

  
“You’re a god, Apollo,” he answered, looking Enjolras directly in the eye, those eyes burning into his own. "I worship you." Enjolras forgot how to breathe for a moment and stood rooted in his place, as if Grantaire’s icy stare froze him there. He’s shaken from his trance by Grantaire’s laughter.

  
His loud, hysterical laughter.

  
“Oh my god, you should have seen your face,” Grantaire choked out, apparently having difficulty talking over how fucking hilarious his joke was.

  
“Fuck off,” Enjolras said, turning to go. He’d had enough practicing and enough Grantaire for one day.

  
“Oh, c’mon, Apollo!” Grantaire yelled at his receding back. “Forgive me, I’m a mere mortal, after all!”

  
Enjolras didn’t reply to that, simply rolled his eyes and called out, “See ya tomorrow, Grantaire” before making his way out of the bar. It wasn’t until he was almost to his apartment that he realized Grantaire never actually answered his question.

In the days following the ‘Apollo’ incident, Grantaire was suspiciously absent. For several days, Enjolras didn’t see him at their usual time in the mornings.

  
It was the fourth day of Grantaire being MIA, and Enjolras was sitting at home alone, his mind occupied (as it usually was these days) with thoughts of Grantaire and those curls and that stupidly sexy accent and those slender fingers playing piano.

  
It wasn’t only that Enjolras missed Grantaire (though he definitely did, there was no denying his infatuation at this point), he was worried about him. Because for as much time as Enjolras’s brain spent lusting after the man, his mind also kept wandering back to images of Grantaire’s sunken face, his protruding collarbones, the exhausted slope of his shoulders.

  
Enjolras shook the thoughts from his head. It was a Saturday night, and Enjolras decided he absolutely would not spend yet another night in, alone and pining after someone he barely knows.

Which is how he found himself sitting at Fantine’s not an hour later.

“Excuse me? Do you happen to know if Grantaire is working?” Enjolras asked the woman behind the counter. She was a pretty girl with delicate pale skin and long blonde hair done up in a knot on her head. Her eyes were blue and lined with black in a way that made her look a little cat-like.

  
The woman - Cosette her name tag read - surveyed Enjolras briefly before answering. “He isn’t working tonight.”

  
Enjolras had no time to respond before she was turning around and busying herself with the register.

  
His heart sank. And he felt utterly stupid for even coming. Instead of pining alone in the privacy of his own home like he could have been, Enjolras was now pining in public. Wonderful.

  
It struck Enjolras as silly, then, that for weeks he’d been coming to Fantine’s and yet had only been there during working hours a handful of times. And never on a weekend night, which was when they had live performances. He decided to stay and see what the local talent was all about, considering he had absolutely nothing else to do. (And if Grantaire happened to pop in, well, it’d be nice to see him, that’s all.)

  
Taking a seat at the bar, Enjolras waited, trying to grab the attention of one of the servers. The place was packed and would have been understaffed even if Grantaire were there. Eventually, a charming looking person with freckles and braided, auburn hair came over and took his order. Enjolras glanced at the name tag - _Jehan_ it read, with _they/them_ written underneath in smaller letters. Enjolras smiled. It was always nice to be in the company of fellow queer people.

  
“Sorry for your wait, our barman is out tonight,” the server apologized with a small smile. Enjolras waved dismissively, indicating he wasn’t bothered. “Do I know you?” they asked suddenly as they poured Enjolras’s drink.

  
“I don’t think so?” Enjolras replied.

  
“I just feel like I’ve seen that blonde head of yours before,” they answered with a wink.

Their voice was pleasant; musical, almost. Enjolras liked them immediately.

  
“Well, I’m Enjolras,” he replied, laying the money for the whiskey on the counter - he wasn’t drinking enough to open a tab. “I practice the piano here in the mornings, maybe you’ve seen me then.”

  
Jehan’s eyes widened comically large as they stared at Enjolras, and Enjolras was unsure what to do. Thankfully, Jehan seemed to catch themself and hurried away, with a high-pitched, “Sorry!”

  
Confused, Enjolras watched them as they hurried over to where Cosette was attending to a table. They pulled her aside and talked hurriedly, moving their hands in frantic gestures until Cosette shushed them. Suddenly, they both turned in Enjolras’s direction.

  
Unsure of what else to do, Enjolras gave a little wave and Jehan blushed fiercely and scurried away. Cosette on the other hand, simply shook her head and returned to work.

They both seemed to avoid him after that, sending other servers to him when he needed a refill. Enjolras stayed for another hour, not entirely impressed by the performers. He was about to leave when he heard a familiar voice resonate throughout the bar.

  
“Good evening, everybody.” It was Grantaire sitting at the piano, looking a little worse for wear, but it was definitely him. “If you’re new to Fantine’s, you have no idea who I am so I’ll let you in on a little secret: I’m no one.” And with that half-introduction, he began playing a tune Enjolras had never heard before. “While I wait for Cosette to get her pretty face up here, I’ll give you some backstory, I suppose. I wrote this song when I was first moved to New York from London when I was eighteen. Forgive it’s haphazardness, I didn’t have my pal Jehan to help me write my songs then.”

  
“Ah! There you are, Cosette,” he said as the woman joined him on the small stage, perching a violin between her cheek and shoulder. She began accompanying him in the melody, transitioning in seamlessly, as if they did this all the time. “This is ‘The Boxer,’” Grantaire continued and then began to sing.

  
Enjolras forgets how to breathe. He knew Grantaire could play piano, what he didn’t know was how amazing his voice was - raw and just a little raspy, his accent still very much prevalent through his vocals.

  
And nevermind his self-deprecation, the lyrics were incredible. Enjolras had never been more pleasantly surprised in his life.

  
Grantaire played a few covers after that, the audience loving every single one. But Enjolras was having trouble focusing on his performance because Grantaire looked...sick. Although Enjolras was only viewing him from the side, he could tell his skin was even paler than it had been four days prior and the dark circles were a shock against his skin. He was impossibly thin. He’d been skinny before, but now it seemed he’d lost at least five pounds in four days and that couldn’t be healthy. Something was wrong.

  
“He’s pretty remarkable, huh?”

  
Enjolras spun around, startled out of his reverie by Jehan.

  
“Yeah...amazing,” Enjolras admitted, turning to watch Grantaire once more. He was singing a much slower song now, without Cosette’s violin accompaniment.

  
“I’m Jean Prouvaire, but everyone calls me Jehan,” they continued and Enjolras nodded, tearing his eyes away from the man on the stage.

  
“Nice to meet you.”

  
“Yeah, sorry about earlier...I was just surprised to meet you,” Jehan said, sugary sweet and smiling.

  
“Surprised to meet me? Why?” Enjolras asked.

  
“Heard a lot about you, that’s all,” Jehan replied cryptically.

  
“From Grantaire?” Enjolras asked, trying not to sound too hopeful.

  
“Shouldn’t you be bussing tables?” It was Cosette and she didn’t look happy.

  
Jehan winked at Enjolras, kissed Cosette on the cheek, and retreated from behind the bar. In the background, Grantaire’s voice was still filling the room.

  
“Do you need something?” Cosette asked, her voice sharp and hassled.

  
“No, I just...you told me Grantaire wasn’t working today,” Enjolras decided on saying.

  
“Does he look like he’s working?” she asked, gesturing to where Grantaire was on stage. It appeared he was close to wrapping up his set.

  
“You know what I mean,” Enjolras managed before Grantaire’s ‘Thank you, everyone,’ sounded throughout the place and the bar’s patrons applauded enthusiastically.

  
Cosette’s eyes darted to the stage and she looked immediately uncomfortable.

  
“You should go,” she said abruptly, taking Enjolras’s glass from his grasp.

  
“What? Why?”

  
“Enjolras?”

  
He turned at the sound of his name, but not before seeing Cosette roll her eyes and dart through a doorway behind the bar.

  
“Hey Grantaire,” Enjolras said, trying to sound casual when he was feeling anything but. Up close, Grantaire’s appearance was almost frightening. Something was _seriously_ wrong.

  
“You, uh...you been here the whole time?” Grantaire asked. It was the first time Enjolras had ever heard him sound nervous.

  
“If by ‘whole time’ you mean was I here for your set then yes,” Enjolras replied, giving Grantaire a reassuring smile. “You were...incredible, honestly. Why didn’t you tell me you could sing?”

  
“Never came up,” Grantaire answered, taking a seat next to Enjolras at the bar. Jehan came over then and congratulated Grantaire on a great set. They poured Grantaire a glass of water and set it on the counter in front of him.

  
“Got anything stronger?” Grantaire asked, and Jehan’s eyes flickered to Enjolras and they frowned.

  
“Grantaire-”

  
“And something for my friend here,” Grantaire said, interrupting them. They looked back and forth between Enjolras and Grantaire before sighing and going to make the drinks.

  
“So what are you doing here?” Grantaire asked, staring straight ahead.

  
 _To see you_ , Enjolras almost replied before stopping himself.

  
“You know, just checking out the local talent.”

 _Not exactly a lie_ , he thought.

  
“And what is your consensus?” Grantaire asked.

  
“Not bad, I suppose,” he teased and Grantaire laughed. Before he could respond though, Jehan was returning with the drinks, setting one down in front of each of them albeit reluctantly. As they walked away, Grantaire switches them.

  
“There’s less alcohol in that one,” he said, gesturing to the glass now sitting in front of Enjolras. “Sorry.”

  
“What? How do you know?” he asked, taking a sip.

  
“Because I know Jehan,” he answered breezily before taking several large swigs of his own drink. “They think I should...cut back on the drinking.”

  
Enjolras wanted to ask why. He wanted to ask a million different questions about Grantaire and his strange friends but he bites his tongue.

  
It’s none of his business, after all.

  
“So, where’ve you been?” he finally asked, going for casual curiosity and probably missing. Grantaire’s eyes flickered to Enjolras for the briefest of moments, and Enjolras had to force himself to stop staring.

  
“A little under the weather, Apollo, nothing to worry your pretty head over,” Grantaire replied with a smirk before swallowing down the rest of his drink.

  
With a wink, he jumped over the bar, pulled out a bottle of whiskey from under the counter and held it up victoriously.

  
“Let’s take a walk,” he said and before Enjolras could reply, he’s hauling himself back over the bar and heading out the door.

  
A beat later, Enjolras followed.

  
He finds Grantaire outside leaning against the side of the pub, a cigarette dangling from his lips.

  
He takes a puff of the cigarette, tilting his head back and closing his eyes. Enjolras was mesmerized by the curve of his throat and his thick eyelashes fanned out across his cheeks.

He took a swig of whiskey. A puff of the cigarette. Another swig.

  
Finally, he spoke.

  
“What the hell are you doing here, Apollo?”

  
“What? I mean, you said we were going on a walk...” he said, feeling incredibly stupid and very embarrassed.

  
“No, I mean, what are you doing here?” Grantaire spread his arms out, the bottle swinging dangerously in his grasp. “What is someone like you doing wasting your time in a place like this?”

  
“What do you mean ‘someone like me’?” Enjolras asked, crossing his arms over his chest. He was suddenly feeling extremely exposed and he didn’t like it. “You don’t know anything about me.”

  
Grantaire closed his eyes again and laughed, letting his head fall back against the brick building.

“Oh, but I do, Apollo,” he replied, his voice soft and low. “I know you.”

Enjolras wanted to argue, but something in the way Grantaire said it made him believe it was true.  
  
He doesn’t know if it was that feeling or the alcohol or the way Grantaire’s eyes were shadowed so beautifully under the streetlamp, but the next thing Enjolras knew he was pinning Grantaire against the building and slamming their lips together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Besides the occasional flashback, the rest of the story will take place in the present day. This acts as prologue of sorts :)


	2. As We Know It

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just a lot of emotionally charged karaoke

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The first song R sings is Friend of the Devil by The Grateful Dead and the second is Someone Saved My Life Tonight by Elton John.
> 
> See the end notes for links to the Mumford & Sons covers of both. (If you want to stay with a consistent sound for R throughout.)

“Enjolras?”

Enjolras turns around at the sound of his name, almost fainting when his eyes meet the man who had said it. 

“ _Grantaire?_ ” Enjolras feels like all the air has escaped from his lungs, his whole body instantly feeling hot and prickly all over. 

“Jesus christ - hi! How are you?” Grantaire asks pulling off his sunglasses, his tone sounding pleasantly surprised.

“What are you doing here?” Enjolras blurts instead of answering. He hadn’t yet put the sleeve on his coffee, and he was vaguely aware that it was burning his hand, but he couldn’t seem to move to correct this - could only openly stare at his ex-boyfriend who now happened to be an international rockstar. 

“Here as in Starbucks or here as in the city?” Grantaire asks, cheekily. He’s smiling at Enjolras now, and Enjolras’s brain starts working long enough to register that _holy shit Grantaire got hot._

It wasn’t as if Grantaire wasn’t attractive before, obviously. It’s just that the last four years had apparently been good to him. Enjolras has seen pictures of him online of course, but seeing him in person was something else entirely. He was less skinny now, much more filled out and muscular, and his arms were well-defined, an apparent side effect of constantly being on tour and playing instruments. He’s cleaned up his curls some, keeping them a little shorter than he used to, and he’s grown a beard. He’s super hot in an obvious way, and how he carries himself now only adds to that. He seems confident and completely at ease - two things Enjolras was certainly _not._ In this moment or otherwise. 

He’d just come from the gym, was still wearing his workout clothes, his long hair tossed up in a messy bun. He looks down at himself and grimaces.

“Tour just ended. I’m home for a bit,” Grantaire clarifies before Enjolras has a chance to reply. 

“Oh. How long have you been back?”

“Couple weeks.”

“Wow, that’s awesome,” Enjolras says, because he doesn’t know what else to say. It’s been nearly four years since he’s spoken to Grantaire, the last time being one of Enjolras’s worst memories, and now the man is standing in front of him, wearing a fitted grey t-shirt that stretches across his chest and hugs his biceps in all the right ways - the total picture of cool. Enjolras, meanwhile, is sweaty and disgusting and interally freaking the fuck out. 

“Grantaire!” Enjolras is saved by the barista calling out Grantaire’s order, and the other man slides past him to grab his drink from the counter. 

“So, uh, listen,” Grantaire says then, a slow smile spreading across his face. “I have to get to a meeting. Do you have the same number?” Enjolras nods. “Cool. Be expecting a text from me,” he says, and then he fucking winks before leaving with his fucking iced coffee, while Enjolras stands there wondering what the hell just happened.

  
  


The text doesn’t come until 8:00 PM. 

Enjolras had been checking his phone every two minutes since he left Starbucks, each time telling himself he wouldn’t look again until it actually vibrated and failing miserably in this endeavor. 

_Karaoke?_ was all it read.

Enjolras feels himself smile as he taps out his response, _You just want to show off_

His phone buzzes. _Trying to impress you, really_

 _You already impress me, Grantaire,_ he writes before he can think better of it.

 _;)_ is his response. 

Then, _Bring the boys. See you at 10 xx_ He follows it up with an address, and Enjolras bites his lip, thinking. 

Henry’s flight from Vancouver wasn’t supposed to be in until midmorning tomorrow, not that he would want to bring him anyway. Enjolras shoves down the guilt he feels after having that thought. _It’s just karaoke,_ he rationalizes. 

He shoots a text to Courfeyrac and Combeferre that reads, _We’re going karaoking tonight with Grantaire. 10PM. Attendance mandatory,_ and hurries to jump in the shower.

Afterwards, Enjolras is standing in his underwear, FaceTiming Courfeyrac while holding clothing options out in front of him.

“Number two, definitely,” Courfeyrac says resolutely. “Don’t you think, honey?” he asks Combeferre off-screen. 

“Yeah, you look hot Enj,” Combeferre replies and Courfeyrac hits his boyfriend’s arm playfully.

“He doesn't even have the clothes on yet,” he says, rolling his eyes. “But he’s right - you will look super hot.”

“I’m not trying to look hot,” Enjolras scoffs and Courfeyrac gives him A Look.

“So you just ran into him at Starbucks?” Combeferre asks.

“Yes, Ferre, I turned around and he was just there.”

“Which Starbucks?” he asks then and Courfeyrac turns to look at him, his brow pinched. 

“Why does that matter?” Courfeyrac asks.

“I don’t know,” Combeferre says, moving to lay down next to Courfeyrac on the bed, only his shoulder and ear visible to Enjolras. “I’m just curious.”

“The one by SoulCycle,” Enjolras replies, and Courfeyrac gasps.

“You went without me?!” he asks, looking affronted. 

“I invited you, Courf. You answered the phone and told me to fuck off.”

“To be fair you were calling before 8AM. That’s Evil Courfeyrac’s hour,” Combeferre says offhandedly, and Courfeyrac nods enthusiastically. 

“He’s right, Enj. You know better than to book a bike that early!”

“I had to get an early start if I wanted to squeeze in time at the gym before my-” Enjolras interrupts himself, exasperated. “Why are we even discussing this?! There are more pressing issues at hand!”

“Right, right,” Courfeyrac says, nodding some more. “How long has it been since you’ve seen him?”

“Almost four years,” Enjolras replies, worrying his lip between his teeth. Combeferre whistles.

“Long time,” he murmurs and Courfeyrac shoves his shoulder into his boyfriend’s. 

“Oh god, you’re right. Is this a terrible idea? I don’t even know the man anymore. Why would I agree to this?!” Enjolras is starting to panic, and Courfeyrac pushes Combeferre off the bed completely, scrambling to sit up. Enjolras hears the other man grunt from where he’d fallen. 

“Enj, breathe. It will be okay,” Courfeyrac says in soothing tones, while simultaneously shooting daggers at Combeferre off-camera. “Ferre and I will be there the whole time.”

Enjolras takes a breath before saying, “Courf?” The other man hums in reply. “He looked good.”

There is a pause. “How good?”

“Really good.”

Courfeyrac simply grins in response, biting down on his bottom lip. “See ya soon.”

After Courfeyrac hangs up, Enjolras pulls on his outfit with shaking hands. He and Courfeyrac had decided on a pair of skin tight black jeans that he knows he looks killer in, a black button up, and a suede bomber jacket. He leaves his hair down and natural from the shower, and after appraising himself a few times in the mirror, he grabs his keys and leaves to go meet his friends. 

That’s how Enjolras finds himself at a karaoke bar in Midtown, cozied up next to Grantaire in one of the enormous brown leather booths.

Enjolras, Combeferre, and Courfeyrac had made it to the bar about an hour ago, so everyone was a few drinks in at this point. Grantaire had been excited to see Combeferre and Courfeyrac again, hugging them both enthusiastically before ordering them all several rounds to get started.

As such, Enjolras was feeling loose and giggly, and he was sure his face was a little flushed at this point, his jacket long since abandoned.

“You know, you used to be a lot more punk rock,” Grantaire is saying, leaning in toward Enjolras to be heard. His arm is thrown around the back of the booth, and he uses his other hand to poke accusing fingers into Enjolras’s chest. 

Enjolras laughs and replies, “So did you.”

Grantaire looks at Enjolras for a long moment, an indescribable expression on his face. Enjolras laughs again, nervously. “So tell me about this place,” he says, looking around. The bar is incredibly high-end, several enormous tufted leather booths like the one they were in lined the walls. There were two large bars on either end of the room, and a stage in one corner. Enjolras was surprised to see a full set of instruments there, and he wondered if they did live shows in addition to the karaoke. “I’ve never heard of it before.”

“Oh, yeah, the owner is an old friend of mine - we were mates at primary school, actually. He opened this place up a few years ago. I, just - I don’t know - I just like it. He keeps it kind of low key, ya know?”

Enjolras doesn’t know but he nods anyway. It is wild to think of Grantaire as “famous.” He sees his face occasionally, on magazines at bodegas or while skimming through Facebook. He hears his songs on the radio or playing over the loudspeakers in shopping malls. Most of the time, though, it’s something he can forget about. Sure, he thinks about Grantaire, but it’s not the same person he sees interviewed on red carpets. That’s _R._ Enjolras doesn’t know that person.

He hasn’t quite determined who he’s with tonight.

“Speak of the devil!” Grantaire says loudly, then, startling Enjolras from his thoughts. A wide grin spreads across his face, and he nods toward Enjolras, silently asking to be let out of the booth. “Look at this big ugly fucker!” 

“Ah, how are you, ya cunt?” the man says as they stand, Enjolras stepping off to the side awkwardly. 

“It’s been a bit, yeah?”

“It has,” the man says, turning around to put his arm around the woman standing next to him. “You remember the missus?”

“Of course, it’s good to see you again, love,” Grantaire says sweetly, kissing each of the woman’s cheeks. 

“You too,” she replies. “I loved the album.” 

“Thank you,” he says, ducking his head and placing his hand over his heart. He looks over at Enjolras and says, “This is Enjolras.” It feels strange to be introduced by him like this - almost like they’re a couple again. “Enj, this is who I was telling you about - Patrick, and this is his lovely wife Celine.”

“Good to meet you,” Patrick says, earnest. He shakes Enjolras’s hand. “You enjoying yourselves?”

“Yeah, thanks!” Enjolras replies. “Great place you got here.”

Patrick smiles gratefully before turning to Grantaire to ask, “You singing tonight?”

“Fuck yeah!”

“What’ll it take to get you to sing a song of yours?”

“No, no, no, no, no,” Grantaire replies, laughing. “It’s _karaoke_! By _definition_ , you sing other people’s songs.” 

“All right, all right,” Patrick says, holding his hands in a surrender. “At least let me pick one of your songs tonight.”

“I’ll take that deal,” Grantaire says, shaking Patrick’s hand and clapping him on the shoulder with his other. 

Patrick and Celine make their goodbyes, and Enjolras and Grantaire rejoin the others, sitting back down in the middle of an argument between Grantaire’s drummer, Eponine, and his bass player, Bahorel.

“You’re both fucking wrong!” Feuilly, who plays the electric guitar and the banjo in Grantaire’s band, is saying excitedly, slapping his hand on the table to get everyone’s attention. “He’s the guy from _Scream 3!_ ” he continues, reading from his phone. 

Eponine and Bahorel groan simultaneously, and Feuilly looks positively gleeful when Bahorel grumbles, “I could have sworn he was the one in _Jurassic Park_.”

Grantaire is in top form tonight - the life of the party, as always. He’s charming, always makes sure no one is without a drink in their hand, and even manages to tell funny stories about the entertainment industry without sounding like a total asshole. “So we’re at this after party, right? It was after some awards show-”

“The BRITs,” Feuilly supplies helpfully.

“ _Yes!_ Thank you, sir,” Grantaire says with a grin. “After party for the BRITs. _Adele_ walks over to us. Ep and I had _just_ downed a couple-a E’s, right? And-”

“Good evening everyone! My good friend R is here tonight,” came Patrick’s voice over the bar’s sound system, interrupting whatever Grantaire was going to say next. Enjolras finds he’s sad about that. He was enjoying listening to Grantaire talk. He’d missed that accent. “He’s agreed to sing a song of my choosing and - where is he?” Patrick stops and holds his hand along his brow, sheltering his eyes from the bright stage lights above him.

The whole bar starts looking around, their table looks at Grantaire. He chuckles under his breath and motions for Enjolras to let him out of the booth again.

“C’mon buddy,” Patrick continues, having not yet found Grantaire in the crowd. “You can’t hide all night.”

The bar is mostly quiet when Grantaire yells back, “I’m right fucking here!” The crowd parts as he makes his way to the small stage. Pretty much everyone has recognized him at this point, and they all start talking amongst themselves again, their voices humming together into one dull roar. Several people get out their phones to start recording. 

Patrick grins as he helps pull Grantaire up onto the stage, grabbing him on the back of his neck and shaking him playfully. Grantaire fiddles around with one of the guitars set up on the stage before draping one around his neck and moving to the microphone. He starts mindlessly playing a tune on the guitar as he squints into the crowd. 

“If we’re doing it, we’re doing it right,” he says into the mic, and Enjolras has to swallow hard at how ridiculously sexy he was finding this whole thing. He really needed to get his shit together. “Luckily, my band’s here. Come on up lads!” he continues and Enjolras hears Eponine groan dramatically, before she, Feuilly, and Bahorel get up and head to the stage. “Enj, you too. Come play keys.”

Enjolras can feel the blood drain from his face, and he starts shaking his head almost frantically. Next to him, Combeferre and Courfeyrac are laughing and encouraging him to get up - _come on Enjolras, you have to, get up there!_ He feels like his head is underwater, but he allows himself to be nudged from the booth and shoved in the general direction of the stage. Grantaire catches his eye, finally, and grins, and there’s definitely a smugness to it as he helps Enjolras onto the stage. 

Enjolras leans in, feeling like a drunk mess under the bright, unforgiving stage lights, and says “I fucking hate you so much.” Grantaire just laughs and keeps playing guitar. Enjolras thinks he recognizes the song as one of his own. 

Enjolras takes a seat at the keyboard, Grantaire and his fucking band are surrounding him, tuning their instruments, looking like _fucking professionals_ while Enjolras definitely does _not_. He’s starting to sweat. 

“Okay, whatcha got for me, Pat?” Grantaire asks into the microphone, squinting toward the back of the bar. Suddenly, sheet music and lyrics pop up on the screen mounted in front of the keyboard. Enjolras glances around to see every instrument has a similar screen and a microphone. It’s a sophisticated system, leaps and bounds away from any “karaoke” bar he’d ever been to before. “Cheers,” Grantaire says, smiling slowly at the song choice. _Friend of the Devil by The Grateful Dead_ , Enjolras reads.

“I thought you said we were doing _karaoke,”_ Enjolras hisses at Grantaire and the other man has the audacity to wink at him. 

Eponine starts softly tapping out the background rhythm and one by one, the rest of the band joins in and Enjolras doesn’t have time to panic because he needs to join too and somehow, his drunken mind gets his drunken hands to play the right notes and Grantaire starts singing and Enjolras feels on top of the fucking world. 

_I lit out from Reno, I was trailed by twenty hounds_

_Didn’t get to sleep last night, til the morning came around_

Grantaire sounds incredible and Enjolras knows his playing isn’t perfect - no one’s is, of course, this is the first time they’ve ever played it together - but he’s aware he doesn’t sound nearly as good as the rest of them, he just can’t seem to care. Being on stage again - even if it was technically karaoke - felt _good._

_Set out running but I take my time, a friend of the devil is a friend of mine_

_If I get home before daylight, I just might get some sleep tonight_

It’s been longer than Enjolras wants to admit since he’s played. He taps at the piano in his apartment occasionally, but hasn’t sat down to _really_ play, hasn’t learned any new music, hasn’t done any writing, in a long time. In this moment, though, he wonders why he ever does anything else.

_Got two reasons why I cry away each lonely night_

_The first one’s named sweet Anne-Marie, and she’s my heart's delight_

_The second one is prison, babe, the sheriff’s on my trail_

_And if he catches up with me, I’ll spend my life in jail_

When the song ends, the bar erupts into applause and cheers and whistles. Enjolras looks around at Eponine and Bahorel and Feuilly, knowing his grin matches the ones they’re wearing, before landing on Grantaire’s. 

“Holy shit,” Enjolras laughs out, more than a little breathless, and Grantaire pulls him into a hug and Bahorel is rubbing his huge hand on the top of Enjolras’s head and Eponine is kissing him on the cheek and _what? How did this become about him?_

That isn’t right, he thinks. They shouldn’t be praising Enjolras after being so close to Grantaire’s breathtaking talent. If Enjolras thought Grantaire was good before, it’s nothing to how incredible he is now. Even unrehearsed, and drunk - he was so naturally gifted and Enjolras was a little in awe of him.

“Do you feel it?!” Grantaire asks, practically yelling the words over the renewed noise of the bar. 

“What?!” Enjolras yells back and Grantaire is taking his hand, pulling him along. 

They bump and elbow their way through the crowd, Grantaire turning around with a wild grin to yell, “The high!” 

Enjolras just nods, probably looking a little manic, and Grantaire’s nose scrunches up in delight. 

Eventually, they’ve stumbled back over to their table, but there’s a blur of people coming up to them, shoving drinks in their faces, patting them on the back, and Enjolras isn’t sure how much time passes before the reaction dies down long enough for Enjolras and Grantaire to turn and look at each other. 

They stare at each other for a moment, Enjolras unable to hide his smile. Grantaire jerks his head to the side and Enjolras follows. 

They escape outside through a service door, stepping out into an alley, the chilly night air biting at their hot, sweaty skin. It’s almost pleasant.

“Taire, seriously?!” Enjolras says as soon as the door shuts behind them, the loudness from the bar disappearing completely with a _thunk._

“Ah! There it is!” Grantaire says merrily, pulling out a pack of cigarettes from his back pocket.

Enjolras frowns. “There what is?”

There’s a momentary pause while Grantaire lights his cigarette, flicking the lighter a few times before successfully creating a flame. “I was wondering how long you were going to keep calling me Grantaire.”

Enjolras gives him a look that can be interrupted as “tread carefully,” but otherwise says nothing.

Grantaire smirks, but drops it, and says, “You were saying?”

“I was _saying_ ,” Enjolras emphasizes, feigning annoyance at being interrupted. “ _Holy shit_.”

“Brilliant, innit?” he grins. Enjolras doesn’t think he’s ever seen Grantaire this happy before, so he tells him.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you this happy before,” he says, and he’s smiling too, but the look that passes over Grantaire’s face is odd and unreadable. 

“Love a good karaoke,” he jokes, but it’s with considerably less enthusiasm.

“Ha! I know you’re, like, a famous rockstar now, but that’s not how normal people do karaoke,” Enjolras jokes back, bumping his fist against his arm lightly. 

Grantaire laughs and rubs the back of his neck. “It’s why Pat opened this place. He’s a musician too, and he wanted a place where musicians could go and just play music...no pressure, you know? Play other people’s songs for a change. So he opened a karaoke bar but made sure there were instruments in case people wanted to play. Most people just stick to regular karaoke though,” he adds with a laugh.

Enjolras nods, and says, “You were incredible, Taire.” Grantaire makes to look as if he’s going to disagree, but Enjolras plows on. “No, I mean it. I’ve listened to the songs, obviously, but hearing you and seeing you up close like that? I’m, just, stupidly proud of you.”

Grantaire doesn’t say anything for a while, just smiles to himself and looks down at his shoes. “Thanks,” he says. Then, “You were a natural up there.”

Enjolras snorts at that and rolls his eyes. 

“I mean it,” Grantaire says. “It felt good playing with you again.”

Enjolras just smiles at him, unsure of what to say. They stand there in silence for a few moments. Grantaire finishes his cigarette and Enjolras watches as he drops it and puts it out with the toe of his boot.

“You know, I -” Grantaire looks up from his shoes and stuffs his hands in his pockets. “Nevermind.”

“You, what?” Enjolras asks.

“It’s nothing.”

“Come on, Taire. It’s me,” he replies without thinking. He’s not entirely sure what that even means, but it seems like Grantaire understands anyway. 

“It’s nothing! I just - I thought you’d come to a show, that’s all,” Grantaire answers, shrugging in a way that is clearly meant to be casual. 

Something flips in Enjolras’s stomach. “I have. Twelve, actually.” 

Grantaire’s head snaps up at that, a look of utter disbelief on his face.

But Enjolras had. 

It was more difficult in the beginning - when Grantaire was still playing gigs in tiny bars to then weird, underground venues - to attend the shows undetected. He always went alone, and he made sure to arrive just as Grantaire was about to take the stage, leaving as soon as his set was over. Once _R’s_ first album came out and Enjolras had to start actually buying tickets for his shows, it became easier to just pick a seat near the back. He was even able to bring Courfeyrac along sometimes.

And it had been hard other ways, too, at first - to see him and hear the songs. That first album was pretty...painful. And Enjolras wasn’t stupid. He knew the songs were about him and them and their relationship. Their breakup. It was a special kind of torture to watch the man you love sing about you in such beautiful words. Words that were, at times, angry and devastating. At others, ethereal and venerating.

The first show was particularly awful for Enjolras. Grantaire sang a few of the songs they wrote together, and he’s pretty sure he was crying by the end of the set. Not to mention, Enjolras could tell he was trashed the minute he walked out on the stage. The gig was in some tiny bar in the East Village, and Enjolras showed up promptly at 10 P.M. and positioned himself in a shadowy back corner so Grantaire wouldn’t see him. As he sang, it felt like Enjolras was witnessing something he wasn’t supposed to. Grantaire was angry and sad and _fucked up,_ and his songs were loud and raw and full of an almost unbearable grief. 

Afterwards, Enjolras had a panic attack on the subway.

If he were a smarter man, he’d have stopped going after that first show. Instead, he kept a close watch on Grantaire’s bands’ social media pages for upcoming gigs in the city and went to as many as he could.

And so, as time went on, the songs became easier and easier to listen to, and Grantaire became more and more like a stranger singing them. 

By the time the second album came around, Grantaire was touring around the country and Enjolras was dating Henry. There were simply a lot less opportunities for Enjolras to see him perform. A small part of Enjolras felt guilty about that.

“What are you on about?!” Grantaire asks, a desperate edge to his voice. 

“Of course I’ve been to your shows. I couldn’t miss that,” he says, but Grantaire is still staring at him like he’s lost his mind. “I went mostly toward the beginning. Most of them were before your first album even came out, actually. I haven’t gotten a chance to see as many lately,” he adds, trying to keep his voice level. Enjolras realized, then, that tonight was the first time in nearly a year that he had seen Grantaire perform. It made Enjolras realize just how much he _missed it_. 

_Missed him, maybe,_ a traitorous part of his heart whispers.

“I don’t…” Grantaire takes a step toward Enjolras and then stops, apparently thinking better of it. He chuckles humorlessly, as if he doesn’t know what to think about Enjolras anymore much less what to say to him. He settles on, “I didn’t know.”

“I didn’t want you to,” Enjolras says because it’s the truth, even if he doesn’t understand it himself.

Grantaire looks like he wants to say something more, but he’s interrupted by the side door opening, Bahorel’s head popping out to say, “There you guys are! Come _on_! Feuilly is wasted and singing a Gwen Stefani song. I wouldn’t be a friend if I let you miss this.” 

  
  
  


“So here’s my question,” Enjolras was saying, leaning toward Grantaire. Their friends have all done a few rounds of karaoke - the regular kind - but Enjolras has barely heard a thing except Grantaire’s voice next to him. “What’s with the faces? When you’re playing a really great riff or something-”

“Oh, Guitar Face,” Grantaire laughs. “All great guitarists have one. It’s the face you make when you’re really going for the note, ya know? When you put some fucking force behind it...it’s indescribable. Feels better than an orgasm.”

“Well, you must not be having very good orgasms these days,” Enjolras teases. 

“Oh, and you have?”

“Surprise!” Enjolras’s stomach drops at the sound of Henry’s voice. He’s able to catch Grantaire’s smile falter just before he turns to look at his boyfriend. 

“Henry?” Enjolras asks, trying to sound excited as he stands up from the booth. “What are you doing here? I thought your plane didn’t get in until tomorrow morning?”

“I took an earlier flight!” Henry says, and he actually _is_ excited. Enjolras feels a twinge in his heart at that. “I wanted to surprise you!”

Enjolras feels a little sick. “Wow,” he replies, not sure how he was planning to finish that thought. Henry is just starting to look a little confused, so Enjolras attempts to school himself. _Just act fucking normal._

“I’m happy to see you,” he says softly, a part of him hoping Grantaire doesn’t hear and the other part of him mentally kicking himself for thinking that. Enjolras holds onto Henry’s elbow and leans forward to plant a kiss on his cheek. Henry grins in response and glances behind Enjolras at the table he’d been sitting at.

“Are you going to introduce me to your friends?” he asks sweetly. 

“Of course,” he turns around and gestures toward Eponine. “Henry, this is Eponine, Feuilly, and Bahorel,” he says and they each smile in turn. He skips over Combeferre and Courfeyrac, and his heart quickens as he reaches Grantaire. “And this is...uh…Grantaire.” Enjolras chances a look at him, but Grantaire refuses to meet his eye. 

Instead, he leans forward to shake Henry’s hand and he looks completely casual - charming, even - like nothing at all is wrong. Enjolras on the other hand is starting to sweat, and he suddenly feels a lot drunker than before. 

“Grantaire…wait are you -” _Oh god._ “Babe, you didn’t tell me you were friends with R! Like _the_ R!” 

Grantaire laughs easily and Enjolras has to physically prevent himself from running away, digging his fingernails into the back of the booth. 

“Nice to meet you, mate,” Grantaire says, his smile bright. Enjolras has to look away. 

“Likewise, man!” Henry beams. “Next rounds on me,” he says to the table at large and everyone says their thank yous. Henry rests his hand on Enjolras’s hip and leans close to say, “I’ll be right back, babe.” 

Enjolras simply smiles in return, unable to find his voice. Once he walks away, he turns around to find all eyes on him. Eponine looks unimpressed, at best. Feuilly and Bahorel look nervous. Combeferre and Courfeyrac look sorry for him. He can’t bring himself to look at Grantaire.

“All right, all right,” Bahorel’s booming voice cuts through the awkward silence, and Enjolras visibly sags with relief. “Who’s next for karaoke?” 

Enjolras had no choice but to fall back into his seat next to Grantaire, the closeness now sending an uncomfortable jolt down his spine. Neither of them say anything while the group continues their conversation about whether Courfeyrac should sing Dixie Chicks or _Blank Space_ by Taylor Swift. 

“Henry, huh?” Grantaire finally says before downing a shot. He’s not looking at Enjolras, instead he stares straight ahead, watching Eponine laugh at something Bahorel says. 

Enjolras chances a look at him before saying, “Yeah, I...yeah.” 

There’s a tightness to Grantaire’s jaw now, that easy laugh from before long gone. “He’s cute.”

“Yeah,” Enjolras says again. 

“So he doesn’t know about us?” he asks next, peeling the label off an empty beer bottle. He turns to look at Enjolras now, leaning back and lazily tossing his arm over the back of the booth. Next to him, Enjolras is pretty sure Combeferre and Courfeyrac are having a fake conversation while eavesdropping shamelessly. 

Enjolras shakes his head no. 

“How long have you two been together?” He’s eyeing Enjolras now, and Enjolras can see something pass over him, an almost imperceptible shift. Enjolras knows that shift. He’s shutting himself off, putting more and more walls up by the second, and Enjolras can do nothing but helplessly watch, hating himself for causing it. 

“Year and a half.” Enjolras starts chugging the beer in front of him. He’s not sure whose it was, but he doesn’t care. 

Out of the corner of his eye, Enjolras sees Henry approaching, carrying a comically large tray of more shots. “Make room for shots,” he says, laughing as he carefully sets the tray onto the table.

Everyone cheers loudly, and Henry makes his way around the table, pulling out the chair next to Enjolras. Henry must have gone immediately to the airport after his last meeting in Vancouver because he was still wearing a suit. It was navy blue with a powder blue shirt underneath and a paisley tie. He kisses Enjolras on the cheek as he sits down, and loosens his tie before speaking. “Okay,” he says loudly, leaning forward to speak to both Enjolras and Grantaire. “I need the story - how do you two know each other?” 

Enjolras is trapped in the middle of Henry and Grantaire, and they both lean close to him to speak to one another over the karaoking going on behind them. Enjolras can smell both of their colognes. It’s clouding his brain and he knows he needs to answer Henry but - 

“We both did shows at this pub I used to bartend at,” Grantaire says, and Enjolras thinks he feels him press his knee against Enjolras’s own, but he can’t be sure whether it’s intentional or not. “Years ago.”

Around them, the bar is getting crowded and loud, their group only adding to the chaos. Their friends are talking and laughing, the two groups fitting seamlessly into one another, and Enjolras isn’t sure if it’s because of genuine mutual appreciation or because everyone is starting to get pretty drunk. 

“Wow, Enj - I still can’t believe you didn’t tell me this!” Henry laughs, bumping his shoulder into Enjolras playfully. Enjolras makes himself laugh. Next to him, Grantaire’s knee bumps his again. 

This is like some sick fantasy-turned-nightmare scenario for Enjolras and he would rather be anywhere else other than sitting between these two men as they discuss their favorite places to stay in London and how the Knicks are doing this season. 

Grantaire’s fucking knee keeps bumping his.

His discomfort must show on his face because Courfeyrac leans over to say, “Enjolras! Come with me and Ferre to watch this girl!” He hooks a finger over his shoulder where a pretty brunette is on stage, singing a pop song Enjolras doesn’t recognize even though it’s seemed to pull a crowd of dancers from their seats. 

Enjolras turns to look at Grantaire and then quickly at Henry, trying to keep his expression neutral. 

“Go on, E!” Grantaire says. His tone is almost jovial and Enjolras hates him. “Go dance! Henry and I are fine! I feel as if he and I have a lot more in common than we think!” 

To anyone else, it seems like a nice, genuine comment. But Enjolras knows it’s payback for the whole not-telling-him-about-his-long-term-boyfriend thing. 

Henry gets up to allow Enjolras past, saying, “Yeah babe! Go dance! Have fun!”

There’s some shuffle as Enjolras and Grantaire get up from the booth to allow Combeferre and Courfeyrac out. Enjolras bumps awkwardly into Grantaire then into Henry then Combeferre until he finally seems to untangle himself, and follows Courfeyrac to the dance floor.

Once there, Combeferre and Courfeyrac position themselves on either side of him and Courfeyrac immediately questions him. “What the _hell_ is going on?!” Courfeyrac yells over the music as the three of them start dancing. 

“I don’t _fucking_ know!” Enjolras yells back, sounding a little hysterical. Enjolras can feel Combeferre dancing behind him, hears him laugh in his ear. 

“This isn’t funny!” he snaps over his shoulder. “This is torture!”

“Like a sexy torture or…?” Courfeyrac asks in complete seriousness, his eyes wide. Combeferre laughs harder. 

Enjolras feels ridiculous having this conversation while grinding with his two best friends, but at this point, his world was no longer making sense. 

“Kind of! But no!” Enjolras yells back. The three of them get jostled by the crowd of other dancers, and Enjolras puts a hand onto Courfeyrac’s shoulder to steady himself. 

“We need to move over some so I can see them!” Courfeyrac yells, his eyebrows shooting into his hairline. 

Enjolras feels Combeferre place his hands around his hips as to not get lost in the fray, and they start dance-moving to the left in a way that probably feels more casual than it actually looks. He wonders just how many shots Combeferre has had for him to follow along with Courfeyrac’s antics without even a grumble of resistance. 

“Okay Enjolras, count of three we turn. 1-2-3!” Courfeyrac plans, and on three, they both spin around until Enjolras is facing Combeferre and Courfeyrac’s back is to him. 

“You sad, sad little man,” Combeferre says into Enjolras’s ear, and he just shoves him away in response. 

Behind him, he thinks he hears Courfeyrac squeak before his head appears over Enjolras’s shoulder to report, “Grantaire is watching us!”

“To be fair, he’s probably watching Enjolras,” Combeferre says, as deadpan as one can manage when they have to yell over music. 

“Shut up, Ferre!” Enjolras says to him, turning around to face Courfeyrac once more. “Let me see!”

Enjolras turns to peer over Courfeyrac’s shoulder, and it takes him a second to spot the booth they’re friends are occupying. He sees Henry first. He’s sitting in the same place Enjolras left him, now speaking to both Grantaire and Eponine, his arms gesturing wildly. He’s lost the tie, the end of it hanging out slightly from the front pocket of his suit jacket, and Enjolras can tell he’s a little drunk. Eponine is nodding along to whatever Henry is saying, but Grantaire isn’t paying attention. Courfeyrac is right, he’s staring at Enjolras, his expression unreadable.

Now it’s Enjolras’s turn to squeak, and he spins back around, stumbling a bit into Combeferre’s chest.

“What’s going on, Enj?!” Courfeyrac asks again and Enjolras groans, letting his forehead rest against his friend.

“Henry just...showed up! And I’ve never actually told him about me and Grantaire!” he yells. He feels two large hands grab onto his arms, and he looks up at Combeferre’s look of complete shock. They both stop dancing. 

“What?! In two years you never thought to mention you dated a famous musician?!” 

“Keep dancing!” Courfeyrac yells, his voice strained as if this part was of dire importance.

It’s a testament to how drunk and otherwise occupied their minds are at the moment, because they both start dancing again immediately.

“Listen, _I know_! I’ll talk about it in therapy!” Enjolras says in reply to Combeferre, waving his hand dismissively. “But, right now, I just need you two to tell me what the fuck to do!”

Combeferre drops his hands from Enjolras’s arms and shrugs. Annoyed, Enjolras turns around to ask Courfeyrac, but he’s already looking up where Combeferre is towering over them both, his expression one of helpless panic.

Enjolras groans loudly, throws his hands up, and says, “Forget it! I’m hiding!” He stalks off toward the direction of the bathrooms and retreats inside. He leans against the door as soon as it closes behind him, willing himself to take some deep, steadying breaths. 

Enjolras walks over to the sink to splash some water on his face. He needs to collect himself, he thinks. He needs to get his shit together. Then he needs to go back out there and tell Henry he’s ready to go home. He can say goodbye to Grantaire, and he will leave on his next sold out world tour or whatever, and Enjolras’s life will go back to normal. 

This is all sounding like a great plan until Grantaire walks in. 

“Oh,” Grantaire says, pausing for a second upon seeing Enjolras. “Hey.”

“Hi.” Enjolras makes eye contact with him through the mirror.

“Alright?”

Enjolras hums an affirmative before looking back down to the sink. He washes his hands while Grantaire walks over to one of the urinals on the opposite wall. Enjolras’s eyes flick to the mirror involuntarily, his gaze meeting the back of Grantaire’s head - his unruly curls. He forces himself to look away and focus on washing his hands. He finishes rinsing them off and turns toward the paper towel dispenser.

”Oof.”

He runs directly into Grantaire’s chest. He freezes in place, his wet hands dripping water onto the floor. They’re standing so close, their noses are practically touching, and Enjolras can smell the alcohol on Grantaire’s breath. This close, he can tell that he’s wasted, knows he holds his alcohol well enough for most people to not notice. Enjolras notices, though. He always notices when it’s Grantaire. 

Grantaire looks at Enjolras for a long time, mumbles something under his breath that sounds like _fuckin’ dancing_ , and then leans his head forward to press the side of his face against Enjolras’s. It’s strange - almost like a slow nuzzle but it’s painfully intimate and Enjolras feels a little like he’s going to pass out as his eyes flutter closed. Enjolras leans his head to the side and it’s like he doesn’t have any control over himself or his movements anymore, feeling all-consumed by this magnetic man he once loved. Grantaire takes this as an invitation and slowly - _so slowly_ \- nuzzles closer to Enjolras, his lips grazing Enjolras’s neck. It’s a ghost of a touch, but it speeds Enjolras’s pulse just the same. The moment lasts only seconds, the only sounds are the muffled noises from the bar and their breathing

The bathroom door swings open and they jump apart as if they’d been burned. The man who walks in doesn’t pay them any mind and Enjolras leaves the bathroom without drying his hands. 

He makes it over to the table in time to see Henry shaking Combeferre’s hand, planting a kiss on Eponine’s cheek, clapping his hand over Feuilly’s shoulder.

“Hey honey,” he says upon seeing Enjolras. “You okay?”

“I’m fine. Are you leaving?”

“Yeah I’m going to head out. I’m exhausted from the flight,” he answers, placing his huge hand on the side of Enjolras’s face. It’s an unconscious touch - second nature, really - but it turns something in Enjolras’s stomach. 

He thinks he can still smell Grantaire on him.

“Okay, let me get my coat,” Enjolras replies with a small smile, and Henry drops his hand.

“No, babe, you should stay!” he says. “I’ll just see you at home. You should spend time with your friends.”

Enjolras is torn. On the one hand, staying here with Grantaire being so _Grantaire_ is dangerous territory. But going home alone with Henry right now, having to pretend like things are normal and that he’s not slowly spiraling out of control, sounds just as awful. He looks at his boyfriend for a moment, at his mussed up hair and crumpled suit, looking so soft and endearing and sweet as honey. He feels a little sick. 

“Okay, babe,” he says. “If you’re sure.” If Enjolras weren’t a coward, he’d go home with his boyfriend and face what he has to say. But Enjolras is too drunk and too emotionally unsteady to have the Grantaire conversation right now. He decides it will be easier to spend the rest of the night with Combeferre and Courfeyrac, avoiding Grantaire, and then go home and crash once Henry is fast asleep. He can do this. 

“Of course I’m sure,” he says sweetly. He gives Enjolras a peck on the lips.

“Oh, you’re not leaving are you Henry?” Grantaire’s voice breaks through the chatter among their friends, loud and clear. Enjolras is once again struck with just how drunk he is. 

“Yeah, man, I just had a five hour flight here. I’m exhausted,” he says kindly, reaching out to shake Grantaire’s hand. Grantaire takes his hand into one of his and throws the other arm over his shoulder. 

“Aw, you gotta stay - I’m about to take my turn!” Grantaire says, referring to karaoke. Enjolras doesn’t like the sound of any of this. “I’m thinking a little Elton John!”

Henry laughs, polite as ever, and says, “Wouldn’t miss it, man.”

Grantaire scurries off toward the stage, and Enjolras watches as he talks to some people who seemed to be already waiting in line. They smile and nod, gesturing for Grantaire to take the stage and he places himself onto the piano bench. 

Their group makes their way closer to the stage so they can watch Grantaire sing, Henry pulling Enjolras along by the hand. Enjolras’s stomach is sinking more and more by the second, a bad feeling coming over him knowing from past experiences that nothing good came from Grantaire being wasted. _Maybe it won’t be that bad,_ Enjolras thinks, biting his lower lip. 

Then Grantaire sits down at the piano and starts singing. 

_When I think of those East End lights_

_Oh god,_ Enjolras thinks, immediately recognizing the song. He looks up at Henry, but he’s just smiling at the stage, oblivious. Enjolras can do nothing but watch helplessly, hoping Grantaire doesn’t embarrass either of them too terribly. 

_And it’s one more beer then I don’t hear you anymore_

_We’ve all gone crazy lately, my friends out there, rolling round the basement floor_

He sounded great, but then again Enjolras knew that Grantaire was his best at a piano. So far, he was just singing the song like normal, and anyone who didn’t know Grantaire and his habit for using music to passive-aggressively say what he couldn’t would be none the wiser to the underlying message.

That being said, Enjolras thinks Courfeyrac becomes suspicious by the chorus. 

_And someone saved my life tonight, sugar bear_

_You almost had your hooks in me, didn't you, dear?_

Grantaire hasn’t looked at Enjolras yet, has sung most of the song with his eyes closed, as if he was really concentrating on his sound. It isn’t until the second verse that Grantaire’s eyes meet his, and when they do his expression is as mocking as his tone when he sings the lines,

_I'm strangled by your haunted social scene_

_Just a pawn out-played by a dominating queen_

He punctuates the last two words, and looks directly at Enjolras, and it’s in such an obvious way that several people turn to look at him - Henry included.

Enjolras keeps his face casual as Grantaire continues. 

_You nearly had me roped and tied_

_Altar-bound, hypnotized, sweet freedom whispered in my ear_

Grantaire stops singing after the second run through the chorus, interjecting a piano riff, his eyes shut again as he plays. Enjolras feels something in his chest while he watches - remembering Grantaire six or seven years ago teaching Enjolras how to play better than he thought possible. 

When Grantaire sings the bridge, he doesn’t look away from Enjolras the entire time. 

_And I would've walked head-on into the deep end of the river_

_Clingin' to your stocks and bonds_

_Payin' your demands forever_

The words are sad, and Grantaire’s expression is even more sad as he finishes the song. Almost everyone has glanced back at him at this point, Grantaire leaving no doubt as to who the song is about. Next to him, Henry was standing with his back stick-straight, his arms crossed over his chest. Once Grantaire’s song finishes, Henry turns around and makes his way to the exit without a word. 

Enjolras looks at Combeferre and Courfeyrac helplessly, and they simultaneously jerk their heads in the direction Henry had left. 

_Right,_ Enjolras thinks. _I should go check on my boyfriend._

He leaves without a goodbye to anyone, following Henry’s path and meeting him outside. He’s standing outside the bar, tapping away on his phone, clearly waiting for the car he’d ordered. Enjolras walks up to him, opens his mouth as if to speak, but Henry raises his hand in a way that clearly communicated _not now._ Enjolras stands next to him quietly until their car comes. 

The ride home is equally silent. 

As soon as Henry walks through the door, he kicks his shoes off and mutters, “I’m going to bed.”

“Um,” Enjolras says, and it seems to be all the invitation Henry needs. 

“What the hell is going on, Enjolras? I knew it was weird that you never told me about him and now? I can see why,” he says. “You’re obviously in love with him!”

“What?! No I’m not!”

“Well he’s clearly in love with you,” Henry says. 

“Henry, I…”

“Were you two together?”

Enjolras looks at Henry helplessly, his guilt overwhelming, silencing him. He nods.

Henry’s eyes flick to the ceiling, and he takes a deep breath. “For how long?”

“It was four years ago, Hen,” Enjolras says, aware it doesn’t answer his boyfriend’s question. 

“Enj, seriously?” Henry asks, his voice rising. He pauses to collect himself. Henry is a good man. He doesn’t yell, and they rarely argue. “Please, just...can you just be honest with me? Please?”

“We were together off and on for three years.”

“Three years? Jesus Enj, don’t you think you should have mentioned him before now?”

“I know, I’m just...look, those are really painful memories for me. Grantaire was - _is_ \- an alcoholic. It was messy, and it ended badly. I’m sorry I never told you. I recognize now that it was unfair. And it was unfair for me to go out with him tonight when you didn’t know who he was to me. I messed up and I truly am sorry,” Enjolras says and he finds he means every word. 

Henry looks down at his socked feet and nods slightly. After several moments of silence, Enjolras adds, “I wasn’t lying when I said it was good to see you.” He takes a cautious step toward Henry, wraps his arms around him, Enjolras’s hands flat against his back. 

Henry looks down at him and says, “Just...don’t let me be a fool, okay? Because... you could you know. I’m crazy about you, Enj, and I’m not going anywhere so, if - just...don’t let me be a fool.”

Enjolras stands on his tiptoes and kisses him. “Let’s just go to bed.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First: https://youtu.be/JkYNuujgahc  
> Second: https://youtu.be/LtOAnv68sfs
> 
> Thanks for reading! Let me know what you guys thinks so far!!


	3. From Under My Feet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grantaire has a proposition.

The next morning, Enjolras wakes up alone to a pounding headache and two texts from Grantaire. The first, _Sry I’m an arse_ and then, _Coffee? There’s something I want to talk to you about before I leave for LA x_

Enjolras looks at Grantaire’s name for a long time. He can hear Henry messing around in the kitchen. He’s probably already gone on his morning run, showered, and made breakfast for them both. Henry is a morning person, and Enjolras is decidedly _not_. And while it kind of sucks always waking up to a cold, empty bed, at least there’s coffee ready for him.

He closes his eyes against the morning light, feeling the bone-deep exhaustion that comes with a nasty hangover, and his mind wanders involuntarily to lazy mornings curled around Grantaire, his curls tickling his face, his heart full of an overwhelming fondness for the complicated, _beautiful_ man in his bed. He pictures himself under Grantaire’s fingertips - perfectly still as he maps out every inch of Enjolras like he’s a precious thing. 

Enjolras can almost feel calloused fingers against his skin.

His eyes snap open as his phone vibrates in his hand. _You awake?_ it reads. It’s from Courfeyrac, but Enjolras doesn’t have the energy to deal with whatever he wants at the moment. He’s hungover and his brain is betraying him with thoughts of his ex - thoughts he hasn’t had in what feels like years - and he really just wants to stay in bed and sleep for the foreseeable future. 

Eventually, he does drag himself out of bed, and notices a glass of water and a small round pill on his nightstand. He smiles slightly as he takes the medicine and downs the rest of the water Henry has left for him. Pulling on a sweatshirt, he pads barefoot into the kitchen to find Henry standing over the stove, his phone tucked between his ear and shoulder as he scrambles some eggs. 

Enjolras pulls out one of the bar stools and plants himself in it, and the sound causes Henry to turn around and smile, waving at him with the spatula he’s holding. He’s wearing a long sleeve grey t-shirt and jeans, a black apron tied around him. Enjolras watches as he dumps the eggs onto the plates waiting on the counter, dropping the pan into the sink. He removes the phone from his ear and sets it onto the counter, putting it on speaker and turning the volume down low. 

“Conference call,” he explains and Enjolras nods. “I’m muted, but just in case they ask me something.”

“Good morning,” Enjolras says now that he knows he won’t be heard by the other people on the call. 

“Morning, sunshine,” Henry replies with a smile, handing Enjolras a steaming mug of coffee. “Feeling okay?”

“Headache. Thanks for the water and Advil,” he says, jumping slightly as two slices of toast pop up from the toaster.

“You’re welcome,” Henry answers. He slides Enjolras his plate of breakfast. “I felt like shit when I woke up so I assumed you’d need it too.” Enjolra reaches out and squeezes his hand in gratitude. 

The two of them eat in silence for a while, the only sound is Henry’s conference call droning on quietly in the background. Enjolras keeps thinking about the text from Grantaire. _What does he need to talk about?_ he wonders. He feels a little ashamed when he realizes it’s not a question of whether or not he’s going to meet up with Grantaire, but how exactly to tell Henry about it. He keeps hearing Henry saying, “Don’t let me be a fool,” and so, he decides to just come out with it. Rip off the bandaid. 

“Grantaire texted me. Wants to get coffee. Says he has something to talk to me about,” he says quickly and Henry stops eating and looks up from his plate. Enjolras takes a drink of coffee, mostly so he has something to do other than be examined by his boyfriend. 

“Are you going to go?” he asks.

“I don’t know,” Enjolras says which is sort of a lie. “I haven’t answered him yet.”

“Why not?” 

Enjolras wasn’t really prepared for that question. “I wanted to talk to you first,” he ends up saying. 

“I’m not your keeper, Enjolras. If you want to go, then go,” Henry says and it isn’t said with any underlying meanings. Because Henry is a kind, healthy man with emotional intelligence. Now that Grantaire is back in the picture, Enjolras has been behaving like anything but. He really should call his therapist. 

“He’s leaving for LA soon, so,” Enjolras says, realizing that isn’t an answer. He continues, “I’m going to just go see what he has to say, I guess.” 

“Okay,” Henry replies with a small smile. “Call me when you’re done. Maybe we can go do something.”

“Sounds good,” Enjolras says, smiling back. He hops down from the barstool he’s occupying and walks to the other side of the island so he’s standing in front of Henry. “I love you,” he says.

“I love you too, Enj,” he replies, pulling him close and planting a few kisses in his hair. 

“Gotta shower,” he says quietly and heads back toward the bedroom to get ready. 

Half an hour later, Enjolras is dressed in jeans and a blue and white button up shirt, a navy cardigan thrown over the top. His hair is still a little wet from the shower, so he puts it up in a bun, some shorter strands falling loose around his face. 

He’d texted Grantaire back as soon as he left the kitchen, and he’d replied with an address of a coffee shop he’d never heard of. Grantaire had a way of knowing all the best places in NYC for just about anything - coffee, cigarettes, burgers, drugs. 

Henry is typing away at his computer when Enjolras emerges from the bedroom, and he smiles upon seeing him. “You look cute,” he says. 

“Thanks,” Enjolras answers, shuffling over to kiss him on the cheek. “I’ll see you later.” 

Enjolras is practically out the door before Henry can mumble his goodbyes. He’s supposed to be at the coffee shop at 11:30, so he decides to catch a cab instead of taking the subway. Less than twenty minutes later he arrives to his destination, and he can already see Grantaire sitting at one of the bistro tables outside. He’s wearing all black like always, a fedora-style hat hiding his curls, and he’s smoking a cigarette. Dark sunglasses cover his eyes. He looks, well, kind of like a rockstar. 

Enjolras pays the driver, and takes a deep, steadying breath before stepping out onto the sidewalk. Grantaire notices him right away, and grins as Enjolras walks up to the table. “Alright?” he asks, standing to cheek kiss him, just a quick press of his cheek against Enjolras’s. It’s very casual and not nearly as intimate as their interactions from the previous night. 

“I’m okay,” Enjolras answers as they sit down at the table. “How are you?”

“Wonderful,” Grantaire says, waving slightly at the server who just walked out. She comes over, smiling bright at them both. 

“Good morning, we’re happy that you’re joining us here at Rue’s. My name is Kaymi. What can I get started for you?” the waitress, Kaymi, asks. She’s a very sunny person, with long braids piled high on her head and makeup that sparkles in the light. 

“We’ll just take a latte and a flat white?” he looks at Enjolras, who nods in confirmation. “A flat white.”

“Great, I will go get those started and give you guys a chance to look at the menu,” Kaymi replies before walking away to check on another table. 

Grantaire leans back in his chair and says, “So. Henry.”

“ _Dominating queen,_ huh?” Enjolras says in return, giving Grantaire an unimpressed if not amused look. 

Grantaire laughs easily and says, “Seriously, E. I’m sorry I was such a tosser last night.”

“It’s okay. I was too,” Enjolras says, looking down at his hands. Grantaire looks at Enjolras for a few moments and Enjolras isn’t sure what his expression means. It feels like there’s an impossible amount of _shit_ unspoken between them, Enjolras doesn’t know where to begin or if he even wants to. “So, you wanted to talk to me about something?”

“Let’s wait for our coffee first, yeah?” Grantaire says. “I want to hear about what’s happening with you these days. I’ve been reading the blog.”

“Ah,” Enjolras says with a knowing smile. “Have you? Enjoying tearing it to shreds I’m sure?”

Grantaire just laughs and says, “Well, _yes_ , but I was going to say that I’m actually really proud of you.”

Enjolras doesn’t know what to say so he just smiles and looks down to study the menu. When he glances up a few seconds later, Grantaire is still looking at him. 

“I’m beginning to think you didn’t actually have anything to talk to me about,” Enjolras says, after the two of them were halfway through their second cups of coffee, nothing but crumbs left of what were some rather tasty almond croissants. 

“Right,” Grantaire says with a grin, leaning back in his chair. His foot grazes Enjolras’s and then stays put. “Well, we’re working on the next album. It’s in the early stages - mostly writing right now. But I leave tomorrow for LA. I’ll be there for a few weeks for some press and other shit, but once I’m done we’re flying home to finish writing and recording. I want you to come with us.” 

“What are you talking about?” Enjolras asks, because he doesn’t know what else to say. It’s like Grantaire had suddenly started speaking another language. 

“I want you to help me write the album. Maybe play a little piano for the record.”

“You want me to go with you and your band to London - I assume that’s what you meant by _home -_ to make your next album?”

Grantaire laughs, pulling out another cigarette. “Yes, I want you to go with me and my band to London to make my next album,” he repeats, his voice full of amusement. “Jehan’s coming too. Maybe Cosette if I can convince her.”

“I don’t understand,” Enjolras says and it’s stupid but it’s all he can think to say. 

“I’m looking to rent this place - the whole lower level of this house is a big recording studio. I want us all to stay there for a few months and make music.”

“I...don’t think I can do that.”

“Listen, it’s all on me - housing, food, entertainment. You don’t have to spend a dime. And you’ll be compensated appropriately for your work, of course.”

“No - it’s not - the money isn’t the issue,” he ends up saying and understanding spreads over Grantaire’s features.

“Look, E, you’re with Henry, I get that. You’re happy, and I’m happy for you. I have no ulterior motives.”

“Of course not,” Enjolras replies quickly, embarrassed that Grantaire now thinks that Enjolras thought he has ulterior motives. Ugh. When did his life become so complicated? “I know that.”

“Too long away from home?” Grantaire asks. _Not exactly,_ Enjorlas thinks, but he nods anyway. “I get it. I kind of forget most people aren’t used to that. I honestly can’t remember the last time I was anywhere for more than a few months.” Grantaire chuckles as he says it, but Enjolras thinks he hears a hint of sadness in his voice. 

Before Enjolras can say anything in reply, there’s two young women standing at their table, clearly star struck by _R_. “Oh my gosh, sorry for bothering you,” one of them is saying rapidly. She is clearly trying to stay calm, and Grantaire just looks on patiently. “We’re just really big fans and we wanted to come say hi.”

Grantaire stands up, cheek kisses both girls, saying, “Hi loves, it’s so nice to meet you both.” The girls giggle and blush, and Enjolras feels himself fighting back a smile. “Doing alright?”

The girls smile and nod and giggle, and Grantaire is as charming as ever. “Want a photo, yeah?” he asks and they nod eagerly. He takes one of the girl’s phones and hands it over to Enjolras. 

The girls rush to stand on either side of Grantaire, and he wraps his arms around them politely. 

“Okay, 1-2-3,” Enjolras counts before snapping a few photos. The fans hug Grantaire one last time and say their thank yous to both him and Enjolras, before retreating back to their own table.

“Does that happen a lot?” Enjolras asks.

Grantaire sighs deeply before replying, “Kind of. Not so much when I’m home, but when I’m touring - definitely.”

“Does it get tiring? I feel like it would get tiring.”

He shrugs noncommittally. “Sometimes. Most of the time people are really respectful and lovely, though, so I’m happy to do it.”

Enjolras nods and takes a sip of his coffee, as the two fall into a comfortable silence. 

“You know,” Grantaire says eventually. “I kept seeing you.”

“What?”

“At my gigs. I would just see, like, a flash of your hair, or I’d think I saw you in the back of the crowd or something but I never - well, I thought I was going mad, to be honest.”

“I’m sorry, I certainly didn’t mean to drive you mad,” Enjolras says, going for lighthearted but probably missing.

Grantaire chuckles. “You drove me mad the minute I met you.” 

Enjolras doesn’t reply to that - doesn’t know how to reply to that - so he looks down at his coffee instead. “Look - I’ll definitely need some time to think about this. And talk to Henry.”

“Course,” Grantaire says easily. “How about I call you when I get back from LA?” 

“Deal.”

After Enjolras and Grantaire go their separate ways, Enjolras pulls out his phone and calls Courfeyrac. 

“ _There_ you are,” his friend says by way of greeting. “I’ve been waiting for you to call me all day.”

“Sorry, I, uh,” Enjolras hesitates, wondering if he should keep this to himself for now. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust Combeferre and Courfeyrac - in fact, he trusted both of them more than anyone else in his life - it was just that telling them made everything happening suddenly feel very real.

When Enjolras first ran into Grantaire after almost four years, he thought he’d simply pass through, a sweeping wind meant to tousle Enjolras’s hair, shake out his stuffy clothes, and remind him that there was a time, not too long ago, that Enjolras lived a very different life.

It was almost as if Grantaire knew Enjolras needed the push. It was true that lately, he’d fallen into a rather mundane existence - true that he’d admittedly lost some of his fire along the way. He didn’t feel the same passion for his work, had allowed his relationship with Henry to settle into something more reminiscent of roommates than lovers, and worst of all, he’d stopped making music.

Enjolras honestly hadn’t even realized any of this until _after_ Grantaire had reappeared with his drunken grins and talented hands. Then again, this shouldn’t be surprising. Grantaire had always done that for Enjolras - coaxed him out of his comfort zone, taught him to let loose and be a little wild now and again.

_(Enjolras can still hear Grantaire’s voice as it curled around that word. And, god, he loved that voice - the way it always sounded just a little sleepy, always like he was on the edge of laughter. That night, his voice was low and husky as he spoke to Enjolras, his lips brushing against the shell of his ear._  
 _  
_Be serious _, Enjolras had said back then. He could no longer remember what it was a response to._

I am wild _, Grantaire had answered. Teasing._

_They had fucked after that. Moving slowly and holding each other as close as physically possible. They didn’t say a word the whole time, the only sounds were their heavy breathing, stuttered into one another’s mouths like a prayer.)_

  
Enjolras snaps out of it, and says, “I was having coffee with Grantaire.”

“Um? Say more please?” 

“He texted me this morning and asked to get coffee. Said he needed to talk to me about something.”

There’s a pause, and then Courfeyrac is huffing impatiently. “ _Okay and?”_

“ _And…_ ” Enjolras takes a breath, unsure how to even continue. “Well, apparently he wants me to help write his next album. Maybe play piano.”

There is a long, heavy silence on the other end of the line before Combeferre’s voice comes through the phone, “Whatever you’ve just told him...I think it’s broken him.”

“Tell him, ‘In London.’ for me,” Enjolras says with a smirk, and waits while Combeferre relays his message. 

“What’s happening in Lon-” Combeferre tries to ask before the phone is undoubtedly ripped from his grasp.

“What are you _saying_ to me right now?!” Courfeyrac asks, his voice about five octaves higher than normal.

“I’m on my way over,” Enjolras says by way of reply before hanging up the phone.

  
Enjolras tries calling his boyfriend as heads to Courfeyrac and Combeferre’s but it goes to voicemail each time. 

“Maybe he knows,” Courfeyrac says when Enjolras mentions this. 

“Knows what?” Combeferre asks before Enjolras can.

“That Grantaire is trying to whisk you away to London for some hot, hot tea and a good snogging!” Courfeyrac says, which makes no sense and Enjolras tells him as much. “Whatever,” he huffs. “Just tell us what’s going on.”

And so Enjolras relays his entire coffee date with Grantaire in painstaking detail - painstaking because Courfeyrac keeps asking questions about _inflection_ and _eye contact_ , most of which Enjolras can’t begin to answer. When he finishes, though, Courfeyrac looks to Combeferre.

“Well? Are you going?” he asks, peering at Enjolras over his glasses. 

“I mean, I can’t, can I?” Enjolras replies, biting his lip as he looks between his two best friends.

“Well, you _can,_ ” Combeferre says. “There’s just the questions of if you want to and...if it’s a good idea.”

Enjolras is silent for a few moments, mulling over Combeferre’s comment. Before he can reply, Courfeyrac says, “There’s something you should know.”

”What is it?” Enjolras asks, warily. His stomach dropping at Courfeyrac’s tone. 

“After you left last night, Grantaire got...very drunk,” Courfeyrac answers. “It was pretty bad. He got into a very loud argument with Eponine and his friends had to basically carry him out of the bar. No one could get him to calm down.”

Enjolras swallows hard, not fully trusting his voice. “What, uh, what were they arguing about?”

”We aren’t really sure,” Combeferre supplies. “It was kind of hard to understand them and we didn’t want to seem like we were eavesdropping. At one point, I did hear Eponine say, ‘I told you this was a bad idea.’”

Enjolras sighs deeply before replying, “Yeah, well, everything about Grantaire is a bad idea.”

_  
_

After talking things over with Combeferre and Courfeyrac, Enjolras had made a decision. He would stay in New York with Henry. This is his life. This is his future. He’s happy. Adding Grantaire to the mix would do nothing but dismantle everything he’d built for himself.

It was decided.

Later, when Enjolras returns to he and Henry’s apartment, it’s empty. He’s not sure where Henry is, though he has a pretty good guess.

Enjolras showers and orders food and enjoys an otherwise uneventful evening alone, trying desperately to keep his mind on anything other than his rockstar ex-boyfriend. He even typed up a few texts to send to him, explaining that he was flattered by the offer but had to decline, though something stopped him each time. 

Eventually, ten o’clock rolls around and Henry still isn’t home. Enjolras is nestled comfortably on his couch watching _The Daily Show_ and laughing at something Trevor Noah says when he decides to check his Facebook. Henry’s laptop is open on the coffee table, so Enjolras grabs it, not wanting to get his own from all the way in his bedroom. (He doesn’t keep the app on his phone anymore either - Enjolras had spent way too much time in arguments with people in the comment section until Combeferre had placed a gentle hand on his shoulder and said _enough._ )

After a few seconds the screen comes back on, glowing a harsh blue in the dim room. Enjolras logs in using Henry’s password, is about to minimize his email when something about it catches his eye.

 **Re: re: Field Placement for 2020** , the subject reads. 

Enjolras’s curiosity wins out, and he clicks on the email. 

_Mr. Henry Toddeo,_

_We are so pleased that you have accepted the position of Staff Attorney, Immigrants Rights’ Project with placement in San Diego, CA._

_Attached you will find all the necessary information regarding your travel, accommodations, and responsibilities. Please note the official transition to your new role will take place on March 1st, 2020 and will last at minimum six months._

_Again, we are thrilled to have you join our team here in San Diego, as we fight to further the mission of the ACLU._

_Warmest regards,_

_Ingrid Jameson_

_Deputy Legal Director, ACLU_

_San Diego, CA_

Enjolras reads the email no less than 4 times before it all fully registers in his brain. His eyes keep sliding back to _March 1st_ , a date that was less than two months away. He didn’t understand how Henry hadn’t even so much as _mentioned_ that he was applying for a new position all the way across the country, much less that he had accepted an offer.

It’s this thought that has Enjolras sitting in the same spot on his sofa for the better part of two hours staring at nothing until he finally hears keys turning in the locks. A minute later, Henry steps inside and flicks on a light. 

“Hey,” Enjolras says softly and Henry jumps at the sound of his voice. 

“Hey, Enj?” he says, but it comes out more like a question. “What are you doing up?”

“I tried calling a few times. You said we were going to do something today,” Enjolras says instead of answering.

“I know, babe,” Henry sighs, shrugging off his leather bag and peacoat. “I’m sorry, I went into the office to get a little work done and got caught up. You know how it is.”

“I made dinner,” Enjolras says by way of reply. Henry raises his eyebrows questioningly at that and Enjolras huffs. “Sorry, I _ordered_ dinner.” He knows he’s being short and weird and passive-aggressive but he can’t seem to stop. His already emotionally exhausted brain is too angry with Henry for keeping this secret. 

“Those _are_ two different things you know,” Henry laughs from where he’s rifling in the kitchen. He returns a few moments later holding a water bottle, having already loosened his tie and undone the first few buttons of his shirt. He plops down on the couch next to Enjolras and immediately stiffens when he sees what’s on his laptop that’s still sitting open on the coffee table. 

“Enjolras-”

“When were you going to tell me you were moving to California?”

“I’m not _moving_ anywhere, it’s a temporary field placement, and I was going to tell you but-”

“But what?” Enjolras asks, because he really cannot think of a single reason why Henry would wait this long to tell him news this big.

“Things have just been kind of...tense lately and-”

“Tense?”

“Not _tense_ really - can you let me finish please?” Henry asks, turning his body to look at Enjolras fully, shutting the laptop in the process. “I know I’ve been working a lot lately and traveling a lot and I know there’s been, like, a distance between us and so I was just trying to find the right time to tell you that’s all.”

Enjolras simply hums in response. 

“Enj, they want me working with people at the border. Trying to reunite families. Working against ICE. It’s a great opportunity and I would be in the trenches where I’m needed most. They need attorneys down there so badly,” he says and Enjolras can feel his eyes boring into the side of his face. “Please say something.” It comes out practically a whisper.

“I’m happy for you. I really am, Hen,” Enjolras says, reaching out to squeeze Henry’s hand. “I just wish you would have told me sooner.”

“I know,” Henry says, leaning forward to bump his forehead against Enjolras’s softly. “I’m sorry.”

They're both silent for a moment and then Henry is patting his thighs and standing. “But besides, six months will be gone before we know it and I’m sure Combeferre and Courfeyrac would come visit-”

“Wait what?”

Henry pauses from where he’s kicking off his shoes, his fingers reaching for the buckle on his belt. “What?”

“What do you mean Combeferre and Courf can...do you think I’m going with you?”

Henry scowls, and says, “Well, I assumed...wait, are you saying you _don’t_ want to come with me?”

Enjolras stares at Henry, his mouth opening and closing like a fish. “I...I don’t know! You just dumped all of this on me and you _assume_ I’m just going to follow you wherever you go?!” Enjolras is starting to get loud, can feel this escalating into a full-blown argument, but he’s already stretched thin, feeling wound tight and rung out from seeing Grantaire, from the memories that had been flooding back ever since. He can’t seem to breathe, can’t settle down. 

“Enj, I just thought - well, I thought you’d _want_ to come with me. I mean, you work from home and six months is a long time to be apart…” Henry trails off, an almost hopeful edge to his voice.

“Maybe you should have thought about that before you made this decision without speaking to me first,” Enjolras snaps, and he can see Henry physically deflate at his words.

“I won’t take the job,” he says then, but it’s a bluff and they both know it. 

Enjolras scoffs and replies anyway, “You obviously have to take the job.”

“Then what happens with us?” Henry asks quietly, pulling the tie from around his neck and wrapping it around his hand absentmindedly.

Enjolras clenches his jaw, staring at a spot on the floor as he thinks. He’s feeling bitter and betrayed and rubbed raw from everything that had occurred over the last 48 hours. Grantaire had shown back up in his life like an earthquake, starting as a disorienting rumble until his world had cracked open, the ground falling from beneath his feet. 

Which is the only explanation for what comes out of Enjolras’s mouth next. 

“Grantaire wants me to go to London with him to write and record his next album.”

There is a long pause. “What?”

“That’s what he wanted to talk to me about today.”

“What does that mean exactly?”

“Well, I _was_ going to tell him no…”

Henry’s expression darkens. His voice is carefully neutral when he replies, “And now?”

“Well, and now I don’t know because my boyfriend apparently understands so little about me that you thought I would just blindly follow you to California without so much as a discussion?!”

“I wouldn’t call it _blindly following!_ I’m your boyfriend! This is a once in a lifetime opportunity! Forgive me for thinking you’d _want_ to be there for me!”

“Maybe going with Grantaire is a once in a lifetime opportunity for me!”

“That’s what this is about, isn’t it?” Henry asks, his voice becoming strangely calm. “All of this is about him. You’ve been acting like this since the minute you ran into him.”

“This isn’t about Grantaire. You know how important music is - _was_ \- to me. You know there was a time in my life I wanted to be a musician, a songwriter. And here is an opportunity to do just that, and it’s staring me in the face. But I was willing to put that dream aside _for you._ Then you go and make this decision without even consulting me? What am I supposed to think? How am I supposed to feel?”

“Were you, Enjolras? Were you really going to tell him no?” Henry asks, his voice turning icy and foreign to Enjolras’s ears.

“Oh, go to hell,” Enjolras snaps, and as soon as it’s out of his mouth he knows he shouldn’t have said it. This was entirely unlike them - they very rarely argued. 

_He’s never around for you to argue with,_ Enjolras’s bitter brain supplies, and he has to admit there’s some truth in that.

”Really, Enj? Is this really what you want to do right now?” Henry asks, his condescending tone causing Enjolras’s skin to prickle.

He grits his teeth before saying, “No, we aren’t doing this. Have fun in California.”

He’s out the door before Henry can respond, pulling out his phone and dialing. “Grantaire?” he says when the man picks up on the second ring. “I’m in.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the last chapter that Henry will appear heavily in. It’s not-no-smooth sailing to Enjoltaire from here on out :)
> 
> Kudos and comments greatly appreciated!!!!


	4. I Pictured You Different

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enjolras feels a lot of feelings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song R is writing in this chapter can be found here: https://youtu.be/GApvfRyPRfg

Enjolras stares down at the boarding pass in his hand. _JFK to LHR,_ he reads for the hundredth time. People are shuffling about all around him, but Enjolras can’t seem to focus on anything but that.

 _This boarding pass is going to get me on a plane to London,_ he thinks. _To Grantaire,_ some not-so-quiet part of himself chimes in.

Enjolras isn’t sure if this is considered self-sabotage or just plain ol’ masochism. Either way, it’s probably a really stupid idea. 

“Enj!”

His head snaps up at the sound of his name, eyes scanning the crowd until they land on Henry making his way toward him, Enjolras’s carry-on slung over one shoulder. He’s smiling so Enjolras forces himself to smile back. “All set?” Henry asks once he reaches him, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his jeans.

“Yep - bag checked, boarding pass printed,” he replies, holding the latter up as evidence.

“You know what gate you’re supposed to be at?” Henry asks, which they both know isn’t a genuine inquiry as much as it’s just something to fill the silence that’s been weighing heavily on them for the past six weeks.

 _Six weeks._ That’s how long it’s been since he and Henry’s fight. Six weeks since Grantaire asked Enjolras to follow him to London. Six weeks since Enjolras had said yes. 

Since then, things between him and Henry have been strained to say the least. After Enjolras had stormed out of their apartment and called Grantaire, he’d immediately panicked and practically ran to Combeferre and Courfeyrac’s apartment. Or, he would have ran if their apartment wasn’t all the way in Chelsea. In reality, he called a cab, and for the entire drive, Enjolras repeatedly typed out texts to Grantaire telling him to void his previous acceptance and that _no, sorry, actually he couldn’t come after all,_ but he just kept erasing them, none of the messages seeming quite right. Eventually, the cab turned onto Courfeyrac and Combeferre’s block, so Enjolras had just shoved his phone into the pocket of his jeans deciding he could deal with that part later.

(He never did.)

He’d climbed the three flights of stairs to Combeferre and Courfeyrac’s apartment two at a time, stopping to catch his breath for a second before raising his fist to knock. 

Enjolras realized seconds later that it was well-past two in the morning, and he was undoubtedly waking them up, but it was already too late and well, he needed them.

Enjolras heard the lock chain on the door rattle and then Combeferre was opening the door, blinking blearily at him. “Enjolras?”

“Enjolras?” Courfeyrac echoed behind him, popping his head over his boyfriend’s shoulder. 

“What’s wrong?” Combeferre asked, stepping to the side to allow Enjolras in.

“Um, nothing,” Enjolras said, which was unhelpful for everyone but he was feeling a little overwhelmed and unsure how to vocalize all that was going on in his brain. 

“Enj, it’s almost 3AM,” Combeferre replied.

“And you’re crying,” Courfeyrac added softly. 

Enjolras lifted his hand to touch his face, his eyes widening in surprise as his fingers brushed over wet cheeks. He hadn’t realized he was crying nor did he know how long it’d been going on. _Was he crying in front of Henry? When he called Grantaire? Could he_ tell?

“Can I just stay with you guys tonight?” Enjolras had asked, rather pathetically, and his friends simply gave him sympathetic nods and ushered him into their bedroom. Three people was a tight fit, but it wasn’t the first time they’d slept that way. And with the way Enjolras’s life was going at the moment, he doubted it would be the last.

Now, however, it’s six weeks later, and he is about to board a six and a half hour flight to London. He and Henry had decided that a little time apart may be good for them. Enjolras would go to London for the next few months, and Henry would go to San Diego. It was only right that they both had the opportunity to follow their dreams.

Or so it was decided. 

“Gate C,” Enjolras answers, gesturing over his shoulder where he knew the gate to be. The two of them simply stare at one another for several moments, until Enjolras awkwardly reaches out to take his carry-on from him.

“Here, I can-”

“Oh, yeah, of course-”

They speak at the same time, laughing uncomfortably as they pass the bag between them, Enjolras slinging it over his shoulder.

Suddenly, Henry throws his arms around Enjolras, pulling him close. Enjolras hugs him back, something clenching in his chest at the familiar feel, at the smell of Henry’s cologne. 

Henry pulls away before Enjolras does, but he stays close, only leaning away far enough to look at Enjolras’s face. “Enj, are we going to be okay?”

Enjolras doesn’t know what to say to that. It feels like a conversation too complicated to be having in the middle of an airport, surrounded by hundreds of strangers. 

Enjolras’s plane is set to take off in forty-five minutes.

So, in lieu of reply, Enjolras leans forward and kisses him. The kiss doesn’t last long and is fairly chaste, but there is love there. 

Enjolras just isn’t sure love is enough anymore.

“I should go,” he says, smiling at Henry, avoiding his sad eyes. “Still have to get through TSA and all that.” 

“You’re right, you should get a move on,” Henry says, schooling his face into something more casual. “I guess I’ll see you...when I see you,” he continues, Enjolras only smiling in response. “I love you, Enj.”

“Me too, Hen,” Enjolras answers, before pulling him into another quick hug and heading to his gate.

And if he feels a little lighter with each step, well, he tries not to dwell on it.  
  


When Enjolras’s plane lands about eight hours later, there’s no denying it - he feels an enormous weight lift from his chest and he breathes a little easier. He isn’t really sure how to explain it, unsure why actually touching down in London - where he would spend the next three months, at least - made such a difference for his anxious heart. Whatever the reason, the tight, painful feeling he’d been experiencing for the last several days settled into something almost like...excitement?

If he put the Grantaire situation out of his mind for a moment, Enjolras could stop and appreciate exactly what was happening. He was going to become a songwriter. A real musician. 

By asking Enjolras to help write his album, Grantaire was giving Enjolras an opportunity to touch so many more lives with his words than his blog ever could. 

It was a heady thing - the weight of a privilege like that, the responsibility. Grantaire, for all his intricacies, has actually handled that part well. Enjolras really admires him for that, and he thinks maybe he should tell Grantaire, this at some point.

He purposefully ignores the way his stomach flips when he realizes that he’ll have many opportunities to tell Grantaire that and so much more over the next few months. 

After Enjolras is allowed off the plane and has reunited with his suitcases in baggage claim, he sends identical texts to Henry, Combeferre and Courfeyrac, and his mom, letting them know he landed safe and sound in London and would call them later once he’s settled in.

He decides to call Grantaire next to let him know he’d landed and to be expecting him soon. 

“Enjolras,” Grantaire answers on the second ring. 

“Hey Taire, I was just calling to let you know I’m here,” he says, pausing awkwardly. “In London,” he amends. 

“I know,” Grantaire says, laughing a little, and Enjolras feels his eyes widen. “Three o’clock,” he adds, and Enjolras turns to his right, confused.

Grantaire is standing there in an oversized black sweatshirt, the hood pulled up to cover his curls and dark sunglasses hiding his eyes. Enjolras is so surprised to see him that it takes him a few moments to realize he’s holding a sign that says “Apollo.” 

Enjolras groans as he walks over to Grantaire, rolling his eyes, a smile tugging at his lips. “I thought you promised never to call me that again,” he says by way of greeting, and Grantaire barks out a laugh.

“I couldn’t resist,” Grantaire answers with a smile, and Enjolras wishes he could see his eyes. 

“Nice look,” he says. 

“I’m incognito,” Grantaire replies, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “And we really should go, the longer I’m here the greater chance someone recognizes me.”

“You really didn’t have to come pick me up,” Enjolras says as he falls into step with Grantaire. He’s already pulling one of Enjolras’s suitcases behind him, but he insists on relieving Enjolras of his carry-on as well. “I was going to call an Uber.”

“Please, it’s no big deal,” Grantaire replies and Enjolras raises his eyebrows dubiously, knowing it’s certainly a bigger deal for Grantaire to do this than, say, pretty much anyone else. “Okay, well it’s what a good friend would do, and you and I, sir, are going to be great friends for the next few months.”

“Oh, is that so?” Enjolras teases, continuing to follow Grantaire through the airport. He heads in a different direction than the typical exit, guiding them to a side door where an airline attendant and another important-looking person in a suit stand waiting.

Grantaire simply grins back at Enjolras in response before turning around to shake the hands of the airport staff. “Hello, nice meeting you,” he says, Enjolras hanging back and letting Grantaire do what he does best. Schmoozing, that is. “Thank you for allowing us to use the private exit, we really appreciate it.” 

“Of course,” the man replies, opening the door and gesturing them to walk through. Grantaire makes small talk with the staff, Enjolras trailing behind as they make their way down a long hallway. They eventually reach the door at the end, the attendant opening it to reveal a private drive where a large black vehicle is waiting. 

The driver gets out of the car and relieves them of Enjolras’s baggage, loading the suitcases into the back, and Grantaire opens the door for Enjolras to climb in the backseat. He follows behind after shaking the hands of the airline staff once more, sliding in next to Enjolras.

Grantaire grins, looking over at Enjolras in a way that makes his stomach turn a little unpleasantly. “I’m happy you’re here, E,” he says. “This is gonna be fun.” 

And then Grantaire doesn’t stop talking for the rest of the car ride.

By the time they’re almost to the house Grantaire has rented, Enjolras has heard all about Grantaire’s plan for the album, about the insanity of the band’s last tour, about how he and Bahorel are pretty sure there’s something going on between Feuilly and Eponine, and hell - even about his latest allergic reaction to latex. It was almost as if Grantaire was desperate to fill even the potential of silence between them.

Some bitter part of Enjolras nudges his brain, asks, _Don’t you smell the vodka on his breath?_

Enjolras chooses to ignore that thought - Grantaire is no longer Enjolras’s responsibility.

When the car pulls up to the house and comes to a stop a few minutes later, Enjolras is floored. In front of him is a gorgeous semi-detached brick townhouse surrounded by a heavy iron gate. The front door is painted black with white trim, an antique brass knocker on the front. Most beautiful, however, are the throngs of English ivy winding up and around the brick at the front of the house, thick vines curled tightly around themselves and crawling up the sides of the wall toward the roof.

“ _This_ is the house?” Enjolras asks as he climbs out of the car and looks up at what has to be three stories.

“Sick, huh?” Grantaire asks next to him, bumping his shoulder into his. “Wait til you see inside.”

When he and Grantaire step into the foyer, Enjolras can already hear several voices dancing through the house. 

“Come on, I’ll give you the tour later. Let’s go say hi to everyone first.”

Enjolras just nods dumbly and follows Grantaire to the back of the house, gazing slack-jawed at the stunning interior as he goes. 

To his left are glass french doors, propped open to reveal a living room, immaculately decorated, with copious amounts of seating and a fireplace. He follows Grantaire down a long hallway, passing a dining room so beautiful Enjolras stops dead in his tracks to swoon over the vintage chandelier’s hanging above the ridiculously long table. It seats fourteen. He counts.

They eventually find everyone hanging out together in the expansive kitchen, and Enjolras tries not to outwardly react when he sees it’s just as lovely as the rest of the house. Feuilly and Eponine are occupying two of the stools along the bar, while Cosette and Bahorel lean against the counter where Jehan is seated, their socked feet dangling.

There are cheers when the two of them walk in, and Jehan hops down from the counter to give Enjolras a long hug. “I’m so glad you’re here,” they say quietly, their eyes sparkling as if they are telling a secret. Enjolras’s heart warms at that, and he feels suddenly very grateful to have Jehan here with him. The two of them had stayed in touch after Enjolras and Grantaire broke up - getting coffee regularly and going to various gallery openings and broadway shows together. As time went on, though, Enjolras and Jehan saw each other less and less. It wasn’t a conscious thing - just two friends growing up and growing apart - but seeing them now, Enjolras was struck with just how much he’d missed them.

“Baz!” Grantaire calls when he enters the room. “Let’s pop open that champagne! I want to make a toast to our first day.”

“Aye aye captain,” Bahorel answers, and then sets about opening one of the numerous bottles of champagne on the counter.

Once everyone has a flute in hand, Grantaire lifts his in the air and says, “Here’s to all of you. Thank you for agreeing to work on this record with me. Let’s try not to let it suck. Cheers!”

“Cheers!” everyone echoes, taking a sip of their drinks. Everyone except for Grantaire that is - instead, he downs his in two gulps.

“Well, I guess we know who Grantaire’s favorite is.”

Enjolras turns to find Eponine standing next to him, arms crossed over her chest and giving him a calculating look. “What do you mean?” he asks, feeling a little intimidated by her. She seemed nice enough when they had met back in New York, but there’s still a fierceness to her that says she’s not to be fucked with.

She’s also disarmingly beautiful. Her hair is cropped short, much shorter than Enjolras’s, and right now it’s falling messily into her eyes. She’s wearing black jeans and what appears to be a well-worn _Ramone’s_ t-shirt. It’s much too large for her and she’s rolled up the sleeves to compensate.

This is as close to Eponine as Enjolras has ever been, so he takes the opportunity to search her face and is surprised to find an almost sweet softness there, a softness that completely counteracts her hardened exterior. 

Enjolras thinks it might be all those freckles. 

Eponine gives him a pointed look. “Well, he certainly didn’t pick _me_ up from the airport,” she says, sounding amused. Next to him, Jehan clears their throat and Enjolras looks over questioningly. 

“Me neither,” Jehan shrugs, and Enjolras feels his face turn red.

Enjolras turns around without saying anything, his eyes finding Grantaire across the room. He and Cosette are sitting together in the breakfast nook (though ‘nook’ is a fairly modest description given the sheer size of this one) and talking animatedly.

 _It doesn’t mean anything,_ Enjolras tells himself. _He probably felt obligated because his dick has been in your mouth._ Then, _oh god, why are you thinking about Grantaire’s dick in your mouth?_ Followed by, _STOP THINKING ABOUT GRANTAIRE’S DICK IN YOUR MOUTH!_

Enjolras startles from his thoughts by a hand on his shoulder. “This is gonna be interesting,” Eponine says, quiet enough that only he and probably Jehan can hear. He stares after her as she walks off, following Feuilly out of the room. 

“Come on,” Jehan says from behind him. Enjolras feels a hand on his lower back and then Jehan is leading him toward the fridge. “Let’s get you a beer.”

  
  


That first night, Grantaire throws a party.

Enjolras has never experienced anything like this before. The house is packed full of industry people - producers, record label execs, other singers Enjolras thinks he might recognize.

Tonight, Grantaire is in his element as host - flitting about from person to person, drink in hand, his boisterous laugh somehow always cutting through the noise of the party.

He’s also watching Enjolras. In fact, he’s been watching him all night. 

Enjolras has been making his way through the party, stopping for small talk with strangers here and there and texting Courfeyrac anytime he sees someone famous. He spent the first half of his evening with Jehan, grateful to have someone he knew nearby, but he’d lost them to the back patio where someone was passing joints around like candy. Currently, he’s making small talk with a man whose name he can’t remember. He’s an agent or producer or something, Enjolras isn’t sure at this point. All of the people are starting to blur together and besides, he can’t really concentrate on what the man is saying because Grantaire is _watching._

Every time Enjolras’s eyes find Grantaire’s in the crowd, he’s already looking back at him. Even when he’s in the middle of lively conversations, gesturing wildly with his hands, his eyes continue to flicker to Enjolras across the room. It’s been making Enjolras feel unsettled and nervous and like he doesn’t know what to do with his hands. 

Now, however, there is a completely different look in Grantaire’s eyes - it’s almost imploring, one eyebrow raised as he glances between Enjolras and what’s-his-face. 

Aaron? Adam?...is still talking, but Enjolras takes the opportunity to excuse himself before locking eyes with Grantaire again, jerking his head for him to follow.

He waits in the little hall off the kitchen that was clearly used as a type of butler’s pantry at some point, and Grantaire finds him quickly enough. 

“You beckoned?” Grantaire asks sweetly, a huge grin plastered on his face. He smells like scotch, and there is a flush high on his cheeks.

“Stop looking at me!” Enjolras says immediately, causing Grantaire to startle slightly before his mouth slides back into that dumb grin that used to make Enjolras’s knees weak. ( _Okay maybe it still does, just a little._ )

“I don’t know what you’re talking about!” he says, his voice full of laughter. 

“Yes you do - you keep looking at me! Every time I look at you, you’re looking at me!”

“Who’s to say _you’re_ not the one looking first?” Grantaire jokes and Enjolras glares at him. Grantaire holds his hands up in surrender, and concedes, “Hey, it’s not my fault you’re nice to look at!”

At that, Enjolras feels himself soften a little. “You too,” he says before he really thinks about it, his words loosening around the tequila cranberries he’d been drinking all night. “I mean, you look good. These days.” 

Grantaire smile falters a bit, the playful, teasing quality from before sliding into something more genuine. “E, you…” he pauses, his eyes roaming over every inch of his face, as if taking in each tiny detail. Enjolras’s pulse quickens as he watches Grantaire watch him. “You have no idea,” he says eventually, and Enjolras doesn’t quite know what to make of that.

“Come with me,” Grantaire is laughing again before Enjolras can even formulate a reply. He reaches out to pull lightly at Enjolras’s wrist, keeping his hand there for a few breaths. Enjolras skin tingles after he lets go, but he tries not to think about it.

Enjolras follows Grantaire through the crowd, almost running into his back every time he stops to say hi to people. Enjolras is a little mesmerized by him. The way his smiles come so easily, the way he throws his head back when he laughs. Enjolras doesn’t think he’s ever seen Grantaire so full of life before. It is both infinitely beautiful and unbearably heart-wrenching.

Enjolras takes a long sip of his drink just as Grantaire walks up to two men and throws his arms around each of them in turn.

“E,” he says, turning around and gesturing for Enjolras to come closer. “I want you to meet some people. This is Joly, my producer, and Bossuet, my engineer. They’ve been with me since the first record,” Grantaire says, and Enjolras extends his hands to shake each of theirs. 

“It’s nice to meet you,” he says and before either of them can reply, an extraordinarily beautiful woman comes stumbling over, wrapping herself around Bossuet before planting a kiss to his jaw. 

“And this is their dazzling girlfriend, Musichetta,” Grantaire says with a grin, and the woman seems to realize she’s interrupted something. She turns around and smiles at Enjolras, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “How are you, darling?” Grantaire asks, as he leans forward to cheek kiss Muschietta in greeting.

“Spectacularly drunk,” she giggles, releasing her hold on Bossuet and wrapping her hands around Joly’s arm lightly. 

“That’s what I like to hear,” Grantaire jokes. “So when are you gonna ditch these losers and run away with me?” It’s clear that this is a running joke between the four of them, and Musichetta simply rolls her eyes fondly.

“You couldn’t handle me,” she says with a wink.

“She’s right, that’s why there’s two of us,” Bossuet comments dryly, and Musichetta swats at his arm. 

“Chetta, this is Enjolras,” Grantaire says at the end of a laugh.

“O _h,_ ” Musichetta says, looking at Grantaire in a way Enjolras can’t interpret. “So this is the infamous Enjolras? _The muse_.” 

Grantaire barks out a laugh, mumbles something that sounds like _Christ,_ and downs the rest of his drink. 

“He’s _cute,_ R,” she continues like she’s impressed, and Enjolras feels himself blush.

“Cheers,” Grantaire says just as Joly wraps his arms around Musichetta’s waist and starts pulling her away. 

“Come on, babe,” he says, reaching back for Bossuet to thread his fingers in his own. “Let me make you another drink.” With a laugh, Bossuet salutes Enjolras and Grantaire and allows himself to be pulled along. 

“Chetta’s an artist too,” Grantaire says, staring at his friends’ retreating forms. “She’s already pretty big here in the UK, and she just had a song explode on the radio not too long ago. You’ll be hearing her in the states by the end of the year I’m sure.”

“She’s stunning,” Enjolras says, smiling a little as they watch Musichetta dance between her boyfriends, pulling each of them close. Enjolras’s mind is so caught on the fact that Musichetta had called him Grantaire’s muse, that it takes him a second to realize that she _knew who he was. So, Grantaire does talk about me,_ he thinks. _Not that it matters_ , he adds. 

Grantaire hums approvingly, turning to look at Enjolras finally. “Can you keep a secret?” he asks, which catches Enjolras off guard. 

“Uh, yes?”

“I’m asking Chetta to open for me on our next tour. It’s a surprise, so-” Grantaire holds his finger to his lips with a wink. 

Enjolras mimes zipping his lips, and Grantaire grins in reply. He turns to greet another partygoer, and Enjolras takes the opportunity to down the rest of his drink. He wants a little liquid courage for what he is planning to say next. “So,” he starts when Grantaire has turned back around. “She called me your muse.”

Grantaire’s mouth quirks slightly before he hums in reply. “Mhm…?”

“What does that mean exactly?” Enjolras asks. His cheeks feel like they’re on _fire._

“Oh, don’t be modest. It doesn’t suit you,” Grantaire laughs, reaching out to hold onto Enjolras’s elbow. He gives it a quick squeeze before he disappears into the crowd.

  
  


The next morning, Enjolras wakes up naturally a little before 10AM. He checks his phone, sees he has four unread texts from Henry, but leaves it on charge as he gets up and heads to the kitchen in search of coffee. 

As he waits for it to brew, he hears music begin to filter out of Grantaire’s room. Smiling, he searches for a kettle so he can make tea as well.

A little while later, drinks in hand, Enjolras heads toward Grantaire’s room. The door is cracked just slightly, which is helpful given that Enjolras has no available hands. He nudges it open with his foot, poking his head around the door. 

Grantaire is leaning against the headboard, his legs stretched out and crossed at his ankles, plucking away on his guitar. “Hey, can I come in?” Enjolras asks and Grantaire looks up at him, smiling sleepily. 

“Course,” he mutters and Enjolras walks into the room with the steaming mug of tea, setting it down next to the man. There’s a silver flask sitting on the nightstand and Enjolras tries not to let his eyes linger on it for too long. “Morning,” he adds with a grateful smile. 

Grantaire looks soft and sleepy in the warm morning light. His eyes are still puffy with sleep and his hair is wild, sticking up in all directions. He’s wearing an oversized sweatshirt, the sleeves rolled up just above his wrists and blue plaid boxer shorts.

Enjolras is suddenly reminded of a 21-year-old Grantaire, lounging in Enjolras’s own bed, watching him get ready for work. 

_Don’t go, angel,_ he’d say, and Enjolras would kiss him senseless - or at least until he was no longer pouting. 

“Good morning,” Enjolras replies, standing next to the bed wearing his own pajamas. “I heard you playing. I think we’re the only ones awake so far.” Enjolras ducks his head toward the bed questioningly.

“Please,” Grantaire replies, nodding. Enjolras sits down cross-legged onto the end of the bed near Grantaire’s feet, facing the headboard. He’s holding his own mug and he lifts it up close to his face, the warmth and smell familiar and inviting. 

“What’re you working on?” Enjolras asks, taking a sip of his still too hot coffee. Grantaire doesn’t answer, just reaches over to the nightstand and tosses Enjolras the small notebook that’s sitting there. It lands on the bed near his knee and he picks it up and reads the words written there. It’s scribbled down in Grantaire’s horrible handwriting that Enjolras is all too familiar with. From what Enjolras could tell, he was just starting to work through the chorus.

[Pre-Chorus]

And when I feel that darkness is a heartbeat away 

(And I)

Don't know how to fight it, it's a heartbeat away

(And now)

You don't know me like this, it's a heartbeat away

(And I)

Don't know how to fight hide it, it's a heartbeat away

[Chorus]

And I picture you

(???) in light <\- soaked?

I picture you

And in you I have no doubt

When _______ out?  
the chaos calls me out

And it feels like there is nothing I can do

I picture you

Enjolras doesn’t look up as soon as he’s finished reading, even though he can feel Grantaire’s eyes on him. He needs a moment to school himself because the lyrics cause something like a lump in his throat and he can’t help the ridiculous thoughts that come to his mind like, _Is this about me?_ and _It’s been four years, Enjolras, he’s obviously loved other people, right?_

Instead of voicing any of these, he asks, “Will you sing it?”

“Uh, yeah, I have a few chords I’ve been messing around with,” he replies, taking the notebook back from Enjolras. He starts fiddling with his guitar again, playing a few unrehearsed notes before starting to sing.

It’s a little haphazard, some of the melodies not quite hitting, but Grantaire’s voice is deep and raw from sleep and it sends an uncomfortable feeling down his spine.

“Beautiful,” Enjolras says when Grantaire stops, and he gives him a grateful smile in return. “I think you’ve got something there.”

“Enj,” Grantaire says, something Enjolras can’t quite place clouding his voice. “I want you to know, I’m doing a lot better. With, you know, the drinking. I just...it’s not really a problem anymore - is what I’m trying to say.”

Enjolras’s heart sinks. It’s clear that Grantaire believes he’s doing better - or at least, believes that he’s getting better at hiding his alcoholism. And Enjolras supposes the latter is true - he has a few more years of drinking under his belt, so it makes sense that he can hold his alcohol even better than he did before. In fact, most of the time, if he wasn’t looking for it, Enjolras could forget that Grantaire is drunk. 

That he’s been drunk for every single interaction they’ve had since running into one another at Starbucks.

Enjolras isn’t sure what to make of that. He’s never known a sober Grantaire, so he wasn’t exactly expecting to meet one now. It still hurts, though, to know that Grantaire hasn’t been able to kick the addiction that will inevitably ruin his life. 

He wonders how much the rest of them know. He wonders if they know, like Enjolras does, that it’s only 10:30 in the morning but by now, Grantaire’s been drinking for hours.

It feels kind of shameful, to be a spectator to it - to watching a man he once loved slowly destroy himself with another bottle. And then another. A part of him hopes at least one of his friends understands the severity of the situation, but another part hopes not, hopes that if they knew, they wouldn’t just be standing idly by. Enjolras, for his part, tried for three years and, he thinks that by now, it’s certainly not his place.

At least, that’s what he tells himself as he forces a smile onto his face, looking Grantaire in the eye and saying, “I really, _really_ hope that’s true, Grantaire.” 

He can’t help it - his eyes flicker once again to the silver flask on Grantaire’s nightstand as he gets up from the bed. Enjolras thinks he hears Grantaire mutter _fuck_ as he leaves the room, but he can’t be sure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow I made myself sad there at the end...I’m sorry pals but we’re just getting started :)
> 
> Thank you so much for reading!!! I would love and appreciate comments to let me know what you guys think of it so far! I have a pretty clear plan for this but I’d be interested to know what’s working for you guys!!! <333


	5. I Still Know This Much

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grantaire needs a break.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **I think the only CW for this chapter is passing mentions of marijuana use, alcoholism, and homelessness**
> 
> The first song R is working on can be found here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jlBoqGnuUv4  
> (it's a live version and Marcus's stage presence is how I imagine our R would be when singing live)  
> The second song can be found here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=K9jmjXDQ5MQ
> 
> The song mentioned in the article can be found here: https://youtu.be/rGKfrgqWcv0

Watching Grantaire work is fascinating. 

It had been a while since Enjolras was around that kind of creativity and passion, and now that he was again, he found it a little bit intoxicating.

And if he was honest with himself, Enjolras could admit that even after all these years, he found Grantaire a little bit intoxicating too.

“I’m thinking we make that break even longer,” Grantaire is saying to Bossuet then. Enjolras is downstairs in the studio with them, as well as Joly and Cosette, sitting shoulder to shoulder with Grantaire at the keyboard. “Dun dun dun dun dun...” he continues, singing the beats aloud. “Maybe like four or five measures of that?”

“Okay, show me where you’re thinking,” Bossuet replies, squinting at the monitor in front of him. Grantaire stands and moves behind Bossuet, and Enjolras does _not_ miss the steady press of his arm against his sleeve. He doesn’t even think about it. 

Grantaire leans over Bossuet’s shoulder, points at the monitor, and says, “Right after Verse 3, before the Chorus.” He grabs the guitar nearest him and starts plucking out the notes for Bossuet to hear. 

“And after that I want to get solid vocals on Verse 4, and then we need Feuilly for some fills,” Joly pipes up from the sofa he’s sitting on, a laptop balanced on his knees. 

“After that can we _please_ order food?” Cosette begs from where she’s sitting next to Joly, scrolling through her phone.

It’s been two and a half weeks since Enjolras arrived in London, and their days have gone much like this: wake up, drink coffee (or tea for the misguided English), make music, eat lunch, make music, eat dinner, make music, get drunk, make music, sleep, repeat. And while it’s certainly been exhausting, it’s also been the most fun Enjolras has had in a long, long time. 

He’s actually a little surprised how well things have been going so far, all things considered. He really likes Grantaire’s band - Bahorel, Feuilly, and Eponine have all been more than welcoming - and Enjolras has become quite fond of Joly and Bossuet as well as Musichetta, who comes round when she isn’t also working. Then, of course, there’s Jehan, whom Enjolras has enjoyed getting to spend more time with. He’d missed their friendship.

That just leaves Cosette.

The thing is, Enjolras and Cosette’s relationship has always been a little tenuous. She was firmly against him and Grantaire getting together way back then, which Enjolras now knows was because she didn’t think it was smart for Grantaire to enter a relationship when he was trying for sobriety. There have been many times over the years that Enjolras has had similar thoughts and fears, times when he’s wondered if Grantaire could have gotten sober if Enjolras had never come into his life, if they’d never started their volatile whirlwind of a romance. Let’s just say these aren’t thoughts he liked to dwell on.

In reality, Enjolras couldn’t blame Cosette for her apprehension. It was justified back then, when Enjolras was an 18 year old punk who fell for the raven-haired boy with shaking hands and a voice like sex. And it’s certainly justified now that Enjolras has suddenly elbowed his way back into Grantaire’s life - this time, as a 26 year old mess of man with a boyfriend back home. 

Still, Enjolras wishes things could be different. He likes Cosette - she’s funny and loyal and talented - and for Grantaire, she’s basically family. 

It was only days after his eighteenth birthday when Grantaire moved from London to NYC, with nothing but a backpack of records and the clothes on his back. In the years he and Grantaire dated, Enjolras had heard many stories about how Valjean and Cosette had taken him in, putting a roof over his head and food in his belly, accepting him as one of their own. So, he knows Cosette’s protectiveness comes from a place of love, knows she cares about Grantaire like a brother. He gets it. He really does. 

This isn’t to say it doesn’t suck to be on the receiving end of such obvious disdain. 

“My credit card is upstairs in my wallet,” Grantaire tells Cosette absently, still standing over Bossuet and watching him work. “Go order whatever.”

“Wow, thank you so much, boss,” Cosette replies, sarcasm dripping from her voice. She still rises from her place on the couch, and heads toward the stairs. She stops short, however, and Enjolras is surprised when she turns to ask him, “You’re vegan, right?” 

“Oh, um, yes,” he stutters in reply. “Thank you.”

Cosette doesn’t reply, simply inclines her head in recognition of his gratitude and continues up the stairs. 

“Tell Bahorel to get his ass down here!” Grantaire calls after Cosette’s retreating back, and she gives him a thumbs up without turning around. Regardless, Grantaire misses her response - his laser focus blocking out anything that isn’t music. He’s pacing now, singing softly under his breath, his brow furrowed in deep concentration. Enjolras tries to force himself not to watch him, but he’s been failing in this endeavor more times than not. He can’t help it - he’s worried.

Grantaire has been working nonstop since they arrived, and while Grantaire has always had a brilliant mind when it comes to music, he’s developed some new qualities since Enjolras knew him last.

For one, he’s become a perfectionist.

It was unsettling, at first, to watch Grantaire write music again. His process now is so different from the unhurried, free-flowing approach he once used. Instead of the raw, almost wild music Grantaire made in his youth, his craft has become more precise and particular. Grantaire is meticulous with the details, knows _exactly_ how he wants each line, each note to sound, and refuses to stop until he’s perfected it.

While it’s clear Grantaire’s new methods were working - both his streaming stats and his critical acclaim were growing with each new record, after all - Enjolras couldn’t help but wonder if Grantaire was losing some of himself along the way. 

Enjolras lets himself really look at him, and it’s obvious Grantaire is exhausted. He’s been the first to get up and the last to sleep nearly every day, only stopping to eat or rest when someone else (usually Cosette) forces him to. It isn’t healthy, and it’s certainly not sustainable long term.

The point is, Enjolras has been watching, and it’s clear Grantaire needs a break.

“You’re staring.”

Enjolras jumps at this, at the sudden nearness of the voice saying it, and before he can react further, Bahorel is planting himself on the piano bench next to Enjolras. “I don’t know what you mean,” Enjolras forces himself to say. For his part, Bahorel simply bumps his shoulder into Enjolras’s and smiles. 

“Oh, Baz, perfect,” Grantaire says then, realizing his bass player had made his appearance. “Can you play the chords we worked on yesterday for me?”

“Sure thing, sweetie,” Bahorel replies, his smile stretching into an all-out grin. He moves to accept the guitar in Grantaire’s outstretched hand, and sits down in the spot Cosette had vacated, starting to play. Bossuet presses a few buttons on his computer, and Grantaire’s lead vocals and prerecorded harmonies join Bahorel, filling the room. 

_What have I if I have not love?_

_I am a waste_

_My words are empty vessels_

_If I do nothing in this place_

Grantaire listens with his eyes closed, his fingers twitching slightly as if playing an imaginary piano.

_And we can scream into the shadows_

_And it’s good that we can_

_But walk with me, I think we’ll find a way_

Bahorel finishes a few moments later, and the room is quiet after the final note resonates, disappearing into the soundproof walls, everyone awaiting Grantaire’s response. “I don’t know,” he says finally, opening his eyes once more. “I still want it pluckier than that.”

“I mean, I’ll play as high on the neck as I can,” Bahorel says, playing a few experimental notes. 

“I just don’t know how that that will work acoustically,” Grantaire says, turning to his engineer once more. “Boss?”

“We could record Rel, isolate the notes, and then play it from the keyboard?” Bossuet suggests, and Grantaire hums.

“Okay,” Grantaire says after a few moments of consideration. “Let’s do it.”

And once again, Grantaire is fully immersed. 

About an hour later, Grantaire is finally happy with the instrumentals for his pre-chorus, and Cosette is bounding down the stairs to announce that lunch has arrived. 

Joly, Bossuet, Bahorel, and Feuilly, who had since joined them for his fills, trample over one another in their haste to ascend the stairs, their laughter silenced as it hits the padded walls. 

Grantaire is still sitting at the keyboard, large black headphones smashing down his otherwise unruly curls, his back to Enjolras. He’s playing music only he can hear, his body moving almost unconsciously to the melodies. Enjolras sneaks up behind him, pressing a firm finger onto one of the keys, the note no doubt ringing loudly through his headphones.

Grantaire stops playing with a jump, turning to glance up at Enjolras, and he can’t help but notice how beautiful he looks when he smiles like that. Grantaire pulls his headphones down, leaving them hanging around his neck. “Hey what’s up?”

“Everyone’s gone upstairs for lunch,” Enjolras replies, hooking a thumb over his shoulder toward the stairs. Grantaire looks around as if noticing they’re alone for the first time.

“Oh shit,” Grantaire says sheepishly, pulling off his headphones completely to lay them on the keyboard. “Thanks. I kind of zone out sometimes.”

It’s the best opening he’s going to get. “Yeah, about that,” Enjorlas says, and the man raises his eyebrows expectantly. “I was wondering if we could talk for a second?”

“Sure,” Grantaire answers, his brow furrowing. 

He’s still sitting at the bench for the keyboard, so Enjolras grabs a nearby stool to sit as well. He takes a deep breath and says, “You need a break.”

“What?” Grantaire asks, and if his expression is anything to go by, this is not what he was expecting Enjolras to say. He plows on. 

“You need a break, Taire. You’re driving yourself crazy, and at this rate, you’re going to burn out in, like, a week,” he says.

Grantaire’s face slides into an easy smile. “I’m fine, Enj.”

“Come on, Taire, I know you better than _you_ know you,” Enjolras says, before he can think better of it. 

Grantaire just looks at him, and Enjolras’s cheeks suddenly feel like they’re on fire. “A lot can change in four years,” he says eventually, smirking.

“Right, well, I still know this much,” Enjolras replies, going for flippant and probably missing. “I thought maybe we could go hiking.”

This definitely surprises Grantaire, and the teasing tone has left his voice when he asks, “Hiking?”

“Not just us - I mean, anyone can come,” Enjolras clarifies.

Grantaire doesn’t say anything for a long moment, and Enjolras can feel his blush deepen. Finally, he smiles and says, “Sounds fun. Did you bring gear?” Enjolras nods.

When Enjolras and Grantaire were dating, hiking was one of their favorite things to do together. When they’d travel upstate to visit his mother, they almost always made time to hike some of the gorgeous trails there. Sometimes they would smoke, a few times they had tried semi-successful sex against a tree, but most of the time they would just sit together in silence, admiring the beautiful views and each other. 

“Maybe you still know me after all,” Grantaire jokes then. He stands, taking a step closer to Enjolras, and rests his hand on his forearm. “Really though, Enj. I think you’re right that I need a break. Hiking sounds wonderful. Thank you.” 

Enjolras simply smiles and nods, unable to find his voice at that moment. Grantaire walks by Enjolras to the stairs, and he watches his retreating back for a moment before saying, “Oh, and Taire?” Grantaire turns around expectantly. “Thanks for inviting me,” Enjolras says before he loses his nerve. “This has been really fun, and you’re very...well, you know...you.”

After that strange not-compliment, Enjolras forces himself to shut up, wishing more than ever that the earth would open up below him and suck him into oblivion. 

A slow grin spreads over Grantaire’s face, and then: “Thank you for that assessment, Apollo.” 

And Enjolras just laughs and shakes his head and forgets to be embarrassed. 

Two days later, Grantaire has been able to secure hiking gear for himself as well as for Eponine, Feuilly, and Jehan, the only other people who wanted to join their excursion, and the five of them are currently on the train headed to their destination. Grantaire has chosen a hike about an hour outside London, a seven mile trail from Ockley to Leith Hill that should take them about four to five hours to complete. According to Grantaire, the hike boasts stunning views, and if it’s a clear day, you can even see Big Ben rising proudly over the skyline from the highest point of the trail. 

It’s late March, and the earth has just started to thaw and bloom, spring arriving slow and sleepy as a reluctant yawn. When they arrive at the start of their hike, the sun has settled into a comfortable position above their heads, warming the air just enough to eliminate the sharp sting of the evening’s chill.

Overhead, the sky is bright blue, only a few wispy clouds left behind from last night’s storm, and under their feet, the ground is soft and wet from the previous rainfall. Even the air feels like it’s been blanketed in an early morning dew, and there’s fog rolling over the distant hills, though it’s sparse enough to suggest it will be gone by midday.

They’re all quiet at first, perfectly content to simply absorb the sounds of nature around them and seemingly unwilling to challenge the sacred hush early mornings such as this demand. 

After a while, the group naturally separates as Feuilly and Eponine fall behind together, shoulders brushing as they speak in quiet tones, and Jehan ambles ahead, stopping here and there to consult the foliage field guide they’d brought, identifying and collecting small leaves and flowers and safely tucking them away in between the pages.

Enjolras ends up walking side-by-side with Grantaire, the only sounds between them are the birds chirping overhead and the twigs snapping under the weight of their heavy boots as they follow along the trail. 

Enjolras isn’t sure how much time passes before one of them says something. The part of his brain that’s trying to focus on the beauty and stillness around him is too busy fighting the part of him that’s apparently hellbent on cataloguing each passing point of contact between him and his ex-boyfriend to notice. 

Eventually, it’s Grantaire who breaks the silence. 

“Man, I feel like we haven’t really gotten to talk very much since being here,” Grantaire says suddenly, sounding genuinely sorry about the fact. “Tell me everything. How many times has that attorney boyfriend of yours had to bail you out so far?” 

Outwardly, Enjolras laughs, but inwardly Grantaire’s comment leaves him floundering. He’s found it a little disorienting, at times, to be around Grantaire again. It’s like the two of them are perpetually suspended in time, their memories of one another from years ago hanging between them like an insurmountable barrier. It feels nearly impossible to try and get to know Grantaire _now_ without the pretense of such a complicated and shared history clouding his judgment, but he _wants_ to. With a confusing, yet unmistakable urgency, Enjolras wants more than anything for a chance to know this new, fascinating Grantaire he sees in front of him. 

“Not very many, actually,” Enjolras replies with what he knows is an empty laugh. The actual answer is zero.

“Wow, I’m actually kind of shocked,” Grantaire says, after a moment of consideration. Enjolras can’t make himself look at him. “When I met you, you had amassed - what? Twelve hundred hours of court-mandated community service?”

“Fifteen hundred,” Enjolras corrects with a smirk.

“Come on, man!” Grantaire laughs. “You mean to tell me the same guy who chained himself to a downpipe for a week has forgotten how to misbehave?” 

Enjolras turns to look at Grantaire, feeling strangely weighed down at being reminded of that memory, of the sudden images that come rushing back to him. 

It generally comes as a surprise to no one that, when he was younger, Enjolras was constantly getting into legal trouble for his, let’s say, unorthodox methods of resistance. He was fourteen when he attended his first ever rally - a demonstration at City Hall in NYC organized in response to the passage of Prop8 in California. His mother had taken him - (What can he say? He gets it honestly.) - and he had instantly fallen in love with the energy of resistance, had keenly felt his obligation to protest injustice.

Enjolras was 19 when the city, hoping to make way for new luxury condiminiums, had decided to bulldoze an unoffical tent city known for its population of homeless queer youth. Back then, Enjolras had done what he thought any sensible person with an ounce of empathy would’ve and chained himself to the abandoned building, effectively halting the demolition. Grantaire was there the whole time - sitting with him while he rested, bringing him food and mouthwash, even momentarily taking his place so Enjolras could run across the street to make quick use of the McDonald’s restroom. Enjolras had stayed there for three full days. ( _N_ _ot_ a week, mind you. Grantaire likes to embellish.) There was one of the NYPD’s finest stationed with him the entire time while the governor decided what to do about this annoying delinquent with rainbow-painted nails and enough stubbornness to constitute classification as a Minor Cause for Concern. 

Eventually, the government weighed their pros and cons, and, unsurprisingly, capitalistic greed won out over the risk of bad-press. After 81 hours, Enjolras was forced from his self-imposed chains and arrested for a litany of bullshit offenses like “obstructing traffic” and “maintaining a common nuisance.” 

In the end, the governor’s momentary pause was indeed justified, as Enjolras had actually garnered national media attention at the time. A photo of him stonily staring down a group of armed officers had gone viral, shared by hundreds of thousands of people across Twitter, Tumblr, Instagram - you name it.

( _No one saw the skinny boy in a paint-stained hoodie standing off to the side, watching almost fondly as his boyfriend is ushered into the back of a cop car, only to roll his eyes and head to the nearest ATM._ )

It’s been a very long time since Enjolras has thought about that. Which is odd, he thinks, given that this one-man protest was what initially jump-started his entire career.

“I guess I just had to grow up,” Enjolras eventually says, watching Grantaire’s face and wishing he hadn’t. If his expression is anything to go by, this was the worst possible explanation Enjolras could have given. 

“Forget them, Wendy,” Grantaire replies softly, with a small, almost secret smile before continuing. “I have to say, it makes me a little sad to hear you say that, Enj. You were a fuckin’ wildfire back then - burned too bloody bright for me sometimes.” 

Enjolras doesn’t know what to say to that, so he stays quiet. It doesn’t seem like Grantaire is finished, anyway. 

“You were just so _sure_ of yourself. I would watch you at some rally or another - you know, I only went to those to make sure you came back to me in one piece -” He pauses to bump his shoulder into Enjolras’s. “And I remember wondering what would it be like? To trust yourself that much? To have real conviction, you know? It's like, you’re going to do what you think is right, and you aren’t going to be shy about it either. I’ve always loved that about you.”

Enjolras swallows hard. “Thanks, Taire,” he says eventually, his stomach full of lead at Grantaire’s words. 

It’s been a long time since Enjolras has felt like a wildfire.

The group makes it to Leith Hill about four hours later. Enjolras’s legs are hurting, but it’s the good kind of hurt that gives you a sense of pride at having accomplished something. The hike had been really wonderful, in the end, and Grantaire had been correct about the gorgeous views. They’d passed scenic green meadows and quaint historic cottages, and the man-made paths had certainly eased some of the difficulty of their ascent enough to actually enjoy them. 

As soon as Leith Hill Tower came into view, Jehan had bounced around on the balls of their feet and excitedly led the five of them on the climb up the nearly-70ft tall building. Leith Hill Tower is an ancient construction, a solitary structure surrounded by rolling fields and unfettered greenery, and when they reach the top of it, Enjolras is stunned. It’s the highest point in South East England, with a gorgeous, 360-panoramic view of lush nature and impressive mountains. He’d been right about the fog, it had dissipated by the time their group reached their destination, and Enjolras can just make out London’s crowded landscape in the distance. 

“It’s gorgeous,” he says to no one in particular, taking it all in.

“It really is,” Jehan agrees, leaning their head on Grantaire’s shoulder where the pair stands side by side, also taking in the view. “Thanks for planning this, R.”

“Don’t thank me, it was Enjolras’s idea,” Grantaire answers, turning to wink at him.

Eventually, the group makes their descent to eat lunch in the grass below. Jehan had packed them sandwiches and pre-cut fruit, storing the food in an insulated bag in Feuilly’s backpack, and they all eat quickly, hungry from the hike. 

After they’ve finished, Feuilly stretches out on his back over the soft earth, and Eponine and Jehan flutter off to take pictures together among the wildflowers. Enjolras is sitting near the edge of the hill, hugging his knees to his chest, when Grantaire joins him.

“So? What’s the verdict? On par with our excursions upstate?” he asks, referring to the hikes they’d done together back home in New York. 

He sits down next to Enjolras, and he can’t help the pang he feels in his chest when he looks at Grantaire. His hair is a riot of curls and his nose is pink from the sun. And of course, there’s those eyes that can look at Enjolras in a way no one else has.

“It’s a beautiful trail, Taire,” Enjolras answers, and Grantaire hums thoughtfully, the two of them falling into content silence once more. 

“You know, I did a hike a couple years ago,” he says, breaking the silence. “Near Yosemite. It took us three weeks to finish.”

“Wow, that sounds intense. How was it?”

“They were some of the best weeks of my life,” Grantaire says earnestly, his jaw clenching as he does. 

“You don’t sound too happy about that,” Enjolras comments, keeping his voice light. 

“It was the longest I’d ever gone without-”

“R!” Feuilly’s voice cuts through the quiet around them. “We should probably head out so we don’t miss our train. Plus, Eponine has to pee, and she refuses to go out here.”

“It’s not as easy when you don’t have a dick, Feuilly!” Eponine’s voice rings out from somewhere behind them. Grantaire chuckles, and makes to stand, extending his hand to help Enjolras up as well.

Whatever it was that Grantaire was trying to tell Enjolras is left, as so many things between them seem to be, unsaid. 

The morning after their hike, Enjolras wakes up, sore and sunburnt, to the worst possible text message he can imagine. 

Okay, so he’s being a tad dramatic. But still, it’s a close thing.

 **From Courf:** Um babe? Click the link

 **From Courf:** & then call me

Enjolras does so, a sinking feeling in his stomach. 

-

**_R’s New Beau?_ **

_Singer-songwriter and British heartthrob “R” seen on romantic hike with new blonde bombshell_

The English frontman was spotted just outside London Thursday afternoon on what appeared to be a romantic couple’s hike.

This is the first time R has been seen with someone since his split from model ex-girlfriend, Florèal, last fall. While the relationship (nor the subsequent breakup) wasn’t officially confirmed by either party, sources close to the former couple have stated the decision was “mutual” and the pair remain “close friends.” Still, one has to wonder what the ex thinks about R’s new arm candy. 

The singer, who skyrocketed to fame in early 2017 after his hit song _I Will Wait_ topped the Billboard charts for twelve consecutive weeks, has been open about his bisexuality in the past. He publicly confirmed his orientation that same year, appearing on a podcast called _The LGBTea,_ where he stated that, when it comes to a lover, he’s “never really been picky.”

While his partner’s gender may not make much of a difference to R, it’s clear he has a preference for beautiful, long-legged model-types. (And, really, who can blame him? Did you see that _hair_?)

We reached out to R’s camp for word on his budding romance with this mystery man - whom the office has lovingly dubbed _Hot Blonde_ \- but so far, they’ve declined to comment.

-

Included with the article are three photos of Enjolras and Grantaire from their hike the day before. The first depicts Enjolras, squinting against the sunlight, as Grantaire stands behind him and rifles in his backpack. _To get sunscreen,_ Enjolras remembers. The second photo is of Enjolras’s hand in Grantaire’s as he helped Enjolras over a fallen tree that was blocking the path. Of course, there are no photos of Grantaire subsequently assisting Eponine, Jehan, and then Feuilly across as well.

Somehow, the third picture is worse.

It was taken when Enjolras and Grantaire were sitting at the edge of the hill talking after lunch. Grantaire’s back is to the camera, but with his curls and all-black attire, it’s unmistakably him. As far as Enjolras goes, you can only make out part of his face but what you can see shows a single-minded focus on Grantaire. Examining the photo, Enjolras isn’t sure if it’s just the angle or if they’d really been sitting that close together.

Conveniently, there are no images of Eponine, Feuilly, nor Jehan attached to the article, even though the three of them were never more than a few meters away from Enjolras and Grantaire throughout the entire hike. It’s clear the images were taken on a cellphone - there were certainly no paparazzi nearby yesterday - and while they did encounter a few other hikers, Enjolras didn’t _see_ anyone pulling out their camera phones at the sight of _R_.

He’s just finished reading through the article a second time when Courfeyrac, apparently too impatient to wait for Enjolras, calls.

“Okay, before we get into it I have to say this,” Courfeyrac hurries to say, cutting off Enjolras’s hello.

“I know, I know,” Enjolras says, smiling. Courfeyrac is the only person who can make Enjolras laugh no matter what mood he’s in. “They gave the podcast a shoutout.”

“They gave the podcast a shoutout!” Courfeyrac repeats, sounding delighted. “In fucking _People_!”

“Congratulations, Courf,” Enjolras says, meaning it. “It’s well deserved.”

“Thanks, E.” Then, “How are you?”

“I’m okay,” Enjolras says, though he’s not sure that’s true. “What about you guys? Is Ferre there?”

“No, he’s at the hospital,” Courfeyrac says. “But Enj, I meant how are you feeling about the article?”

“Oh,” Enjolras says. “Um. I’m not sure.”

“Pretty shitty for them to only use those three pictures out of all of them, but that’s to be expected I guess.”

“Yeah, I know it’s - wait what?” Enjolras starts. “What do you mean ‘out of all of them’?” 

“You...you didn’t know? Jehan posted them,” Courfeyrac says carefully.

Before Enjolras can even wrap his head around that answer, his phone is beeping with another call. “Shit,” he curses. “It’s Henry.”

“Fuck,” Courfeyrac agrees. “You should take it.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Love you. Call me later.” And then he hangs up. 

Enjolras looks down at his phone, Henry’s smiling face looking back at him. It’s a picture of the two of them from when they vacationed in Alaska for their one year anniversary. He looks at it for a second too long, wondering if he was happier back then. 

His life was certainly easier back then, he thinks. 

He answers.

“Hey,” Henry says, and Enjolras knows immediately that he’s seen the article.

“Hi, good morning,” Enjolras says.

“It’s 1AM here,” Henry replies, and Enjolras rubs a tired hand over his face. 

“Look, if this about the article, it’s obviously not what it looks like,” Enjolras says. He’s too exhausted to beat around the bush.

There’s a sigh. “How am I supposed to believe that?” Henry asks then, and anger flares in Enjolras’s chest. 

“Because I’m telling you that it isn’t what it looks like?” he says, trying to keep his tone level. “I’m not lying, Henry. Grantaire and I were not on some _romantic hike_. We were hiking, yes. But so was Jehan, and Eponine, and Feuilly.”

“Why aren’t they in any of the pictures then?” Henry asks. 

“Because _R Goes Hiking With Some Pals_ doesn’t make for an interesting read, I’d imagine,” Enjolras snaps. 

There is a long pause, and Enjolras tries to reign in his agitation. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. “I wish you would try to put yourself in my shoes,” Henry says, sensibly.

“I am,” Enjolras replies. “And that’s why I’m telling you: there is _nothing_ going on with me and Grantaire.”

A beat. “Okay.

“Okay?” Enjolras sighs, glad to have avoided a fight, at least for now. “It’s late, you should get some rest. You have a long day of saving the world ahead of you.”

“I don’t know that I would put it that way, but I appreciate the vote of confidence,” Henry chuckles. “Love you, Enj.”

“I love you too Henry,” Enjolras says and hangs up, closing his eyes for a few moments to gather himself.

He needs coffee. As soon as possible. He opens the bedroom door and startles when he finds someone already standing there. “Oh, fuck!” he exclaims, heart beating rapidly in his chest at the surprise. 

“Sorry, sorry,” Grantaire hastens to reply, taking a large step to the side. “I wasn’t trying to - I, um,” he stutters. “My manager is here? He wants to talk to us, about - well, you know, I -”

“Got it,” Enjolras says, letting Grantaire off the hook. He feels his head start to pound and wishes he could go back to bed.

“Alright?” Grantaire asks, looking at Enjolras with concern. 

“I’m fine. Just need some coffee.”

Grantaire smiles at that, offering him a mug of steaming perfection that Enjolras has just noticed in his hand. “My hero,” he sighs, accepting the coffee gratefully and following Grantaire into the kitchen. 

“I’m so so so so so so sorry,” Jehan says immediately upon seeing the two of them, running over to throw their arms around Grantaire.

“Hey, hey,” Grantaire answers, pulling back to look at Jehan’s face. “It’s not a big deal, Prouvaire. Really.” He glances over, and Enjolras adverts his eyes, clutching his mug to his chest and taking a seat next to Bahorel in the breakfast nook.

After a bit more coaxing, Jehan pulls away from Grantaire and takes a seat next to Cosette, who holds their hand the second they sit down. 

“Everyone, this is Marius,” Grantaire introduces, pulling up his own chair and straddling the back of it. He gestures to the only new face in the room, a tall, lanky man with reddish brown hair and an impressive amount of freckles. He’s wearing a suit, which Enjolras finds endearing. Grantaire continues the introductions, pointing at the respective people when he says, “Marius, this is Enjolras, Jehan, and Cosette.”

Marius looks at each of them in turn, something worrying passing over his face when he sees Cosette. He looks kind of like someone having an aneurysm, and Enjolras would be concerned if not for the subsequent blush that creeps up his neck, indicating another cause.

Marius clears his throat, and everyone mercifully pretends not to notice his growing flush. “Nice to meet you,” he says, all business. “I’m Marius Pontmercy, R’s manager. As we all know by now, _People_ magazine got ahold of some photos Jehan posted to their Instagram account, and the accompanying article speculates that R and Enjolras are dating.”

“I’m _so_ sorry, I didn’t know-”

“Jehan, it’s _fine,_ ” Grantaire urges, reaching over and resting a hand on their knee. 

“How did _People_ find Jehan’s Instagram account, anyway?” Bahorel asks. 

“I’d imagine someone shared the post with someone who shared it with someone until a fan account got a hold of it, and it blew up from there,” Enjolras answers automatically, everyone turning to look at him curiously.

“He’s a blogger,” Grantaire explains with a smirk. 

“Right,” Marius continues, refocusing the group. “I wanted to speak to at least you, Enjolras, and R, obviously, to get your opinions on how we handle this-”

“I’m sorry, I just want to add that there were so many more pictures than just those three! Including the group picture that barefoot guy took for us! And-”

“Jehan,” Grantaire interrupts. “We _know_.” Jehan deflates once more, and Cosette pulls them in for a cuddle. 

“So, what do you mean by ‘handle this’?” Enjolras asks. 

“Well, we can either ignore it and let the story die, or we can have R post something that makes it clear you are just friends. There are options, it just depends how important clearing up the rumor is to you two,” Marius answers. At once, the room turns to Enjolras. 

“Is this-is this my decision?” Enjolras asks, looking from Marius’s face to Grantaire’s. In the end, it’s he who answers.

“You’re the only one who has a...conflict,” Grantaire settles on. 

Enjolras thinks back to his conversation with Henry - the same brief, stilted interactions they’ve been having since he arrived in London. He knows he’s being unfair to his boyfriend, knows he’s still harboring a lot of resentment at the man for keeping such an important secret from him. He knows - really, he _does_ \- that he needs to get his shit together, but sorting through his feelings for Henry as well as his renewed relationship with Grantaire is more than he feels capable of at the moment. He’s not proud of himself for it, but like most things, Enjolras wants to ignore this problem and hope it goes away. “I just, I think we should ignore it,” he says out loud. “It’s not like it matters if people think Grantaire and I are dating.” He sneaks a glance at the other man.

Grantaire ducks his head, barely suppressing a grin, and Enjolras has to look away.

  
  


“Hey E?”

Enjolras’s heart leaps to his throat at the sound of Grantaire’s voice outside his door. He glances at the clock next to the bed, and 11:43PM stares back at him. 

“Yeah? Come in,” he replies, trying to sound far more casual than he feels.

After the events of the day, Enjolras has been feeling off-kilter. Marius had stayed for several hours after his official business was complete, catching up with the band and meeting Grantaire’s newest guests. Marius is a great guy. He seems kind and like he genuinely wants what’s best for Grantaire and his career, and Enjolras can see why Grantaire chose him as a manager. Of course, Marius was fascinated by Cosette immediately, and the rest of the group eventually left the two alone to get to know one another on the back patio. Enjolras was sure he’d be seeing much more of Marius after today. 

Enjolras had hid himself in his room for most of the evening, claiming a migraine, and stared at his own face in the now-viral photos. Even after the decision was made to ignore the article, Enjolras kept coming back to it - especially that last image. He couldn’t get past the look on his face, and he wasn’t sure how it was possible for such a small portion of it to convey such an intense emotion. An emotion that - if he didn’t know any better - could almost be described as...adoration. 

But, he does know better, Enjolras tells himself. If anything, these are phantom feelings resurfacing, he’s sure of it. After all, he hasn’t felt that way about Grantaire in a long, long time.

The door opens and Grantaire pops his head in, grinning. Enjolras can’t help but grin back. “You busy?” Grantaire asks. He’d been reading in bed, his back against the headboard and his glasses perched on his nose.

“Not at all,” he replies, closing his book and taking off his black frames. Grantaire steps fully into the room then, guitar in hand. 

“Alright I have this chorus in my head, and I just feel like the song is _right there_. Thought you could help?”

“Sure,” Enjolras replies, trying not to focus too much on how endearing Grantaire looks at that moment - barefoot, his hair a mess, and wearing a crumpled Henley and boxer shorts with what looks like little daisies printed all over them. His finger and toenails are painted black, courtesy of Jehan a few nights ago. Enjolras pats the bed next to him and Grantaire climbs in, mirroring Enjolras with his back to the headboard.

“Okay, so here’s what I got,” Grantaire says, leaning forward to set up his iPhone against a pillow in front of them, the camera capturing about half of them both in the frame. This was one of Grantaire’s “House Rules” - anytime anyone was working on a song, they had to record themselves to capture the “ghosts,” as he called them. “ _You know, the brilliant chord or clever lyric that’s there one minute and gone the next. I’ve lost many hit songs to The Void. I could have had a Grammy by now, I’m sure of it,”_ he’d said at the time, and Enjolras had laughed and said, _“God, you’re such_ _a nerd.”_

Enjolras watches the screen of Grantaire’s phone as he starts to pluck the guitar, singing,

_All day permanent red, the glaze on my eyes_

_When I heard your voice, the distance caught me by surprise again_

_And I know you claim that you’re alright_

_But fix your eyes on me, I guess I’m all you have_

_And I swear you’ll see the dawn again_

Grantaire’s continues playing, mumbles, “And then the chorus would be like...”

_Well I know I had it all on the line_

_But don’t just sit with folded hands and become blind_

_Because even when there is no star in sight_

_You’ll always be my only guiding light_

Grantaire continues to play, humming where the syllables would be, having not yet figured out all the lyrics. He mumbles some words here and there, trying them out on his tongue. 

Meanwhile, Enjolras’s heart is pounding. 

Music didn’t come as naturally to Enjolras as it did Grantaire - it was something he had to really work for and experiment with until he was able to create something _good._ While he would disagree, Enjolras thinks everything Grantaire does is brilliant when it comes to making music, and he’s finding himself more and more inspired - more creative and inventive - since they’d started working together again.

“What about something like,” Enjolras starts, his eyes staring at a spot on the bed, but not really seeing it, his mind too concentrated on the words that are trying to come to him. He starts humming syllables as Grantaire had been doing, testing the lyrics out until he finally pins something down.

_Relate to my youth_

_Well, I’m still in awe of you_

_Discover some new truth_

_That was always wrapped around you_

Grantaire is grinning at Enjolras when he finally turns to look at him, wanting to gauge his reaction. He grins back, the two of them caught up in the rush of making music - that indescribable feeling when it all starts to fall together into something beautiful. Enjolras _missed_ this - so much so, he realizes then, his chest aches with it.

Grantaire turns back to the guitar and starts to sing the lyrics Enjolras had just written, Enjolras supplying him with the words he forgets. He sings it through several more times while Enjolras just listens, a little mesmerized.

After several minutes, Grantaire turns to Enjolras and says, “That’s brilliant, E.” And then, “I already had an idea for the bridge. You want to hear?”

_If we come back and we’re broken, unworthy and ashamed_

_Give us something to believe in_

_And you know we’ll go your way_

Enjolras nods along, unable to stop the smile from spreading across his face. The two of them continue to work through the song, which eventually delves into some lighthearted arguing (naturally), which somehow turns into them having spent the last three hours in bed together.

Currently, Grantaire is regaling the story of when he and Enjolras almost got arrested for getting wine drunk and fooling around in a public park.

“Look, at least you still had pants on! My whole dick was out!” he is saying, gesturing wildly with his arms, the joint they’re sharing dangerously close to ashing onto the comforter. Enjolras is practically in tears he’s laughing so hard, and Grantaire is attempting to keep a displeased look on his face, though he’s failing miserably, quick bursts of laughter coming out of him uncontrollably.

Enjolras wipes a hand over his face and leans his head against the wall behind him, his laughter dying down slowly. He rolls his head to look at Grantaire and finds him already watching.

Any laughter that was left in him is silenced by the look on his face. “I missed you,” Enjolras blurts, and Grantaire grins slowly. 

“I missed you too, angel,” he practically whispers, using Enjolras’s old nickname. It’s been years since he’s heard Grantaire call him that, years since the familiar warmth spread throughout his chest at the sound of it. Enjolras watches Grantaire’s eyes flicker to his lips, and he forces himself to turn away. 

“Well, I should, uh,” Enjolras starts, and Grantaire jumps to answer. 

“Yeah, totally,” he’s saying, already scrambling out of the bed. Enjolras’s heart is pounding so hard in his chest he’s worried Grantaire can hear it. 

“Yeah, I just, it’s late,” Enjolras says lamely, his voice sounding stilted to his own ears. The tension in the air is palpable.

“Yeah, yeah,” Grantaire says hurriedly, reaching down to pick up his guitar and head for the door. He’s just about to step through when Enjolras stops him. 

“Night Taire,” he says, softly.

Grantaire freezes for a second, then turns, says, “Goodnight Enjolras.” And then the door clicks shut behind him, and Enjolras suddenly feels very, very alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading!!! Please please let me know in the comments what you're thinking so far <3 As always, kudos are so appreciated.
> 
> Also, in case it isn't clear, the podcast The LGBTea is Courfeyrac's! And if you're interested, don't worry! We will hear more about this later!


	6. Sick With It

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grantaire finishes his first song and says too much.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow truly I’m just as shocked as you are that I’m updating so soon! Just don’t get used to it pals ;)
> 
> First: LOTS OF WARNINGS:  
> 1\. Heavy discussion of alcoholism  
> 2\. Description of PTSD flashbacks  
> 3\. Mentions of blood and accidental injury  
> 4\. A bit of offensive language surrounding those who struggle with addiction  
> 5\. Minor violence  
> 6\. Unnamed OC attempts to slip a drug into someone’s drink but is very unsuccessful  
> 7\. Like a stupid amount of angst
> 
> Okay now the songs:  
> The song Feuilly is writing can be found here: https://youtu.be/6iWYdkcJBo4
> 
> The first complete song can be found here: https://youtu.be/2nOB_2DQi9U
> 
> The song R is singing in his room can be found here: https://youtu.be/59B_HhxAKro
> 
> And finally, the song mentioned at the club: https://youtu.be/sPSYuxVyf7E
> 
> Okay here we go, deep breaths friends. If it makes you feel any better this chapter is Feuilly-heavy and that’s always a treat <3

It’s a couple days shy of a month when Grantaire finishes his first song.

Enjolras was on a bike in the house’s ridiculously fancy home gym, headphones blaring loudly in his ears and sweating profusely when Grantaire texted him. 

**From Taire:** _Wrap it up, gym rat. Ur already stupid fit and I have a surprise for u all x_

Enjolras had tried to ignore the pleased flutter in his belly at Grantaire’s compliment, slowing down his peddling to text back. 

**To Taire:** _Need 5 mins for a cool down and then I’ll be right up, boss ;)_

Enjolras wondered if this could be considered flirting, but he abandoned that thought as Grantaire’s next text came through, making Enjolras laugh out loud. 

**From Taire:** _you cAN’T CALL ME THAT_

(He’d followed that up with a string of emojis that look like they’re in pain.)

Twenty minutes later, Enjolras is freshly showered and has changed into a pair of jeans and a faded, thrifted t-shirt, and gone to look for Grantaire, eventually finding him in Feuilly’s room. The latter man is sitting on the floor, his back leaning against the bed and his long legs stretched out in front of him. There’s a guitar in his lap, but he’s currently scribbling in a notebook much like the one Grantaire is always writing in. 

At that moment, however, the singer is sitting cross-legged behind his bandmate, peering down over the top of his head to see what he’s writing. It must be incredibly annoying for Feuilly, Enjolras thinks, shaking his head fondly. He announces himself then, knocking on the open door and saying, “Hey. What’re you guys working on?”

Both men’s heads snap up at Enjolras, and Grantaire’s face splits into a shit-eating grin. “Feu is writing a love song,” Grantaire answers, and Feuilly rolls his eyes. 

“Mmm,” Enjolras hums, trying to keep his own smiling from forming. “Got a name yet?”

Grantaire keeps his eyes on Enjolras as Feuilly, with a deep, world-weary sigh, replies, “ _Woman_.” Grantaire waggles his eyebrows, and Enjolras has to suppress a laugh. 

“Can’t wait to hear it,” he says instead, smiling at Feuilly encouragingly.

“It’s fantastic so far,” Grantaire says genuinely, and Feuilly blushes, his reddening cheeks matching his messy hair. That was the thing about Grantaire - the only thing he loves more than making music, is making music with his friends. Enjolras has noticed since being in London, that Feuilly doesn’t often contribute by the way of lyrics. He writes melodies and fills and instrumentals constantly, and that’s almost always what his input consisted of. So, Enjolras knows that, while Grantaire is teasing him, he’s also bursting with excitement to see what Feuilly creates. 

“I have no doubts,” Enjolras says, and Feuilly smiles gratefully. “So what’s this big surprise?” he asks after a moment, and Grantaire’s face lights up. 

“Oh yeah!” he says. “Are Joly and Bossuet here yet?”

“Yep, just walked in,” Enjolras answers, having seen the trio in the kitchen when he went looking for Grantaire. “Chetta too.” 

“Excellent, can you send Bossuet in here and then ask everyone else to wait in the studio?” 

“You got it, b-” Enjolras starts to say, but Grantaire interrupts loudly, saying, “Thanks so much, Enj!”

And Enjolras had left the room, still laughing. 

Now, Enjolras is squished in between Bahorel and Jehan on the couch in the studio. Everyone is here, even Marius and Musichetta, so whatever Grantaire has to say must be important. The space isn’t terribly big, especially with all of the equipment, so eleven was going to be a tight fit once Bossuet and Grantaire finally joined the rest of them.

Enjolras passes the time by checking his emails and going over the blog’s weekly traffic report. He’d given himself two weeks off at the beginning of the trip, having scheduled his posts in advance before leaving New York. But, of course, his queue had depleted eventually, and so he’s back to working, writing for the blog when he isn’t writing music and writing music when he isn’t writing for the blog. 

After what feels like ages, Grantaire and Bossuet finally make their appearance, Bossuet joining his partners near the piano and Grantaire sitting behind the studio console. He’s wearing a black crewneck with Woody and Buzz Lightyear on the front and a yellow bandana tied around his head, and Enjolras has to hide his smile when he sees him.

“You must be wondering why I’ve gathered you all here today…” Grantaire says then, a loud singular groan coming from the group at large in response. “Alright, alright,” he laughs, holding up his hand in surrender. “I’ll get right to it then, yeah? I just wanted to tell you all that we have officially finished our first song.”

There’s a rumble of noise from the group then, everyone reacting to the good news.

“It’s true,” he says. “I’ve just received the master from our good friend Bossuet here.” He pauses to do a little bow of gratitude toward his engineer, and everyone cheers for Bossuet goodnaturedly. “I thought as a thank you for your hard work and for putting up with me, I would take you all out tomorrow night.”

“Yes, baby, I am _in,_ ” Musichetta says before Grantaire can say any more and everyone jumps in to wholeheartedly agree with her sentiments. “Mama needs a night out,” she says, and Bossuet throws his arm around her and kisses the side of her head fondly. 

“That’s what I like to hear!” Grantaire says over the excited babble happening in the very-crowded room. “Details are to come, but for now, let’s listen to the song yeah?”

_I came here without a choice_

_I’m sorry I could never thank you_

_For saving me more trouble_

_I didn’t want any trouble_

_If you were given one more chance_

_Would you bring me back to life_

_Bring me back into the light_

_Into the light_

The song starts low and slow, an ominous feeling strung through the sound, and as Grantaire’s voice fills the room, Enjolras gets goosebumps. An anxiousness settles in his bones, and when he closes his eyes against the unpleasant feeling, he sees blood. 

_(Grantaire had been in the bathroom for a long time._

_He said he wanted to be left alone, but Enjolras couldn’t help it. He was worried. Halting his pacing, Enjolras stopped in front of the bathroom door and called out, “Taire?”_

_No answer. Enjolras tried to keep his heart calm and knocked again. “Grantaire? Babe? Are you okay?”_

_Suddenly, there was a loud thud and a sharp crack, and Enjolras threw open the door, the lock having been mercifully broken for months, to find Grantaire, slumped down between the bathtub and the toilet._

_“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” Enjolras said, crouching down next to his boyfriend. He pulled Grantaire toward him, and he almost threw up when he saw the puddle of blood, spreading across the floor and seeping into the cracks of the linoleum. “Oh my god, oh my god, babe?! Babe?! Baby, it’s okay - can you talk to me?! Taire?!”_

_Enjolras pushed Grantaire’s hair out of his eyes, his head lolling backwards as he did so. He pulled his hand back, and his fingers were covered in blood. Grantaire’s skin was almost blue at that point and his body felt terrifyingly cold in his arms. Enjolras dialled 911._

_“Hello?! Hello?! Yes, please - we need an ambulance. 447 W 125th St, 3C. Please hurry, my boyfriend he - he - I don’t know - please, there’s a lot of blood.”)_

Enjolras squeezes his eyes shut at the unwelcome memory, the painful flashback that is playing like a horror movie in his head. He feels himself start to tremble as the song continues,

_Let it shine on_

_Let it shine on us_

_And if I say I love you_

_Well then I love you_

_And if I say I love you_

_Well then I love you_

Enjolras sneaks a glance at Grantaire, watches him lean in and whisper something in Eponine’s ear. He takes a deep breath. 

_The innocence in your face bled out without a trace_

_You've won without an enemy, you're ill without a remedy_

_As night bleeds into night, and I know I came off better than you_

_It doesn't mean that I feel better_

_It doesn't mean that I feel better_

Next to him, Jehan is looking at him with what Enjolras assumes is concern, but he can’t seem to turn and meet their gaze. Instead, he shuts his eyes again and tries to steady his breathing, but that only seems to trigger more memories. 

_(“Honey,” Cosette said and Enjolras had bristled immediately. “I think it’s time we call someone.”_

_“What?”_

_“I think he needs to go somewhere, Enjolras. Somewhere he can detox safely,” she continued, but Enjolras was already starting to interrupt when she added, “Somewhere with professionals who can help him, Enj-!”_

_“He’s not going anywhere,” Enjolras said resolutely. “He’s staying here, and I’m going to take care of him.”_

_“Enjolras, you can’t help him,” Cosette said slowly, as if speaking to someone very dense._

_“He’s the love of my life, Cosette!”_

_“And he could have_ died _, Enjolras!”_

_The words hung heavily in the air._

_“Enjolras,” she moved closer to him and he flinched away. She was undeterred however, and simply reached out to hold his face in her hands. “Things can’t go on like this, you understand? He won’t make it. Even if he doesn’t hurt himself, the drinking is going to catch up with him.”_

_“What’s going on?”_

_Enjolras and Cosette both turned at the interruption, and Grantaire was standing there, looking between the two of them warily. Cosette dropped her hands and crossed her arms over her chest._

_Enjolras took in the bandages on Grantaire’s head, the sickly pallor to his boyfriend’s skin and sighed, “Babe, you should be resting.”_

_“Grantaire, we think it’s time you got some help,” Cosette had said at the same time._

_Grantaire’s eyes went wide, and he looked at Cosette like she had committed the ultimate betrayal against him. He turned to Enjolras._

_“Please, angel,” he pleaded, and Enjolras’s heart shattered. “Please don’t give up on me. I’ll be better.”_

_“Enjolras, he’s manipulating you-”_

_“How about you fuck off, Cosette?!” Grantaire yelled suddenly, but Cosette continued as if she hadn’t been interrupted at all._

_“He’s an alcoholic, Enjolras,” she said. “He’s going to do and say whatever-”_

_“Enjolras, don’t listen to her.”_

_“-he has to to keep drinking.”_

_“Cosette, just because your mom was a fucking junkie it doesn’t mean we all are,” Grantaire said, and Enjolras went cold all over. Cosette looked on the verge of tears, and she clenched her jaw as she stormed over to Grantaire and slapped him across the face._

_“Fuck you, Taire,” she’d said before turning to Enjolras. “If you really love him, do the right thing.”)_

Enjolras is definitely shaking now, and he feels nauseous and dizzy. He’s trying to remember everything his therapist has said about managing his triggers but he’s coming up short. It’s been a while since this has happened, and it’s not helping that the room is still filled with Grantaire’s voice. 

_Show me your hands_

_Are they cleaner than mine?_

_Show me your face_

_Did you cross the line?_

_Show me your eyes_

_They any drier than mine?_

_Your soul survives_

_But peace, you'll never find_

He counts his breaths. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. 

_(Enjolras had had a bad day._

_And when Grantaire finally stumbled home around 4AM, wasted and smelling like other people, Enjolras had snapped._

_It was unfortunate that Grantaire had been drinking whiskey that night. Whiskey always made him mean._

_“I’m fucking sick of this, Grantaire!” Enjolras was yelling._

_“Yeah?! Well I’m sick of this!” Grantaire had yelled back. “I’m sick of fighting with you every goddamn second of every goddamn day! I fucking hate it! I hate this! I hate y-” Grantaire had stopped himself, but it was too late._

_“You hate me?! Is that what you were going to say?!” Enjolras felt near hysterics. “If anyone in this relationship has the right to hate the other person it’s me! You’ve fucked up everything, Grantaire! Don’t you see that?!”_

_“I’m never fucking good enough for you, am I?! Or is that you’re bitter, huh? You’re bitter because I have more talent in my little finger than you do in your whole fucking body? Because you know you could work your arse off day and night, and still never come close to how good I am?”_

_Enjolras scoffed. “Please. I’m not bitter, and this has nothing to do with music. You’re a drunk, Grantaire. I can’t trust you, I can’t rely on you...I can’t even look at you sometimes,” Enjolras said. He barely recognized his own voice._

_“You know what, angel? You don’t have to fucking look at me ever again,” Grantaire had said, his voice an eerie calm. He turned around and left without another word, the door slamming hard and loud in his wake.)_

“It’s sick, R,” Eponine is saying, and it pulls Enjolras out of his own head. He realizes then that the song is over. 

The rest of the room fills with the voices of their friends, everyone talking amongst each other and to Grantaire about the song. Enjolras closes his eyes for a few moments, trying to steady himself. 

“Are you okay?” Jehan whispers, suddenly close. 

He opens his eyes and turns to his friend. By some miracle, Enjolras manages to choke out, “I’m fine.” Jehan looks at him in a way that clearly communicates they don’t believe him. Enjolras sighs and admits, softly, “I just - I was having flashbacks.” 

Jehan hums sympathetically. “I get those too, sometimes,” they say. “About Taire, right?” 

Surprised, Enjolras takes in the open, concerned face of his friend and suddenly feels guilty. Of course Enjolras isn’t the only person who’s been affected by Grantaire’s drinking. Jehan was there about as much as Enjolras was; Cosette too. And they were both there long after Enjolras left. He can’t imagine that was an easy time for anyone.

“Yeah,” Enjolras says, having trouble finding his voice. 

“I always see him in the hospital,” Jehan continues. “Even now - I’ll be looking at him and he’s laughing, and he’s real and he’s _okay_ right in front of me, and yet - I’ll close my eyes and see him in that hospital bed, looking so small, and it just takes my breath away.”

Enjolras swallows a lump in his throat at that, and he reaches out to take one of Jehan’s hands in his. “I know what you mean,” he says, his voice small and quiet.

Jehan simply smiles and gives his hand a gentle squeeze.

The following night, Enjolras is rummaging through his suitcase, looking for a suitable outfit for the evening. He ends up deciding on one of his vintage patterned button-ups and black jeans, and after ten minutes of attempting to do _something_ with his hair, he gives up and tosses it into a messy bun. Any other time Enjolras would probably care a little more about his appearance, but right now, his mind is preoccupied. It has been since yesterday. 

He can’t get the song out of his head.

And while he hasn’t had anymore of those visceral, somewhat debilitating flashbacks, his mind has been wandering more and more to those haunted memories. He needs to talk to Grantaire. He feels like there are about a thousand words on his tongue, and he wants Grantaire to hear them even if he isn’t quite sure what they’ll say just yet. 

It’s nearing 9PM when Enjolras steps out of his bedroom, making his way to the kitchen where everyone appears to be dressed and ready, several of them already sipping on some cold beers. 

“Oh,” Enjolras says upon seeing everyone. “Sorry, were we waiting on me?”

“Nah, R still isn’t ready either, apparently,” Bahorel says. He’s sitting at the table, looking incredibly handsome in his black tank top and sheer floral kimono. He’s paired this ensemble with his well-loved Timberlands and a fedora. Enjolras, a fellow lover of androgyny, has always liked Bahorel’s style. 

“I’ll go get him,” he offers in response, and leaves in the direction of Grantaire’s room. He’s standing in front of his door, about to knock, when he hears singing coming from inside. 

_But you’re not yourself_

_I know you better than you_

Enjolras knocks but there’s no answer. The singing continues, though, so he opens the door slowly and peeks inside. 

Grantaire is there, already dressed for the evening in black jeans and a smart, black sweater. He’s pacing the floor in his combat boots, headphones in his ears as he sings, his voice high and clear and beautiful. 

_But you’re not yourself_

_I know you better than you_

_But you’re not yourself_

_I know you be-_

“Shit!” Grantaire startles, seeing Enjolras standing in the doorway.

“I’m sorry! I just - I think everyone is ready to go if you are,” Enjolras hurries to explain.

“Oh yeah, sure,” Grantaire answers, pulling off his headphones. 

“Actually, though,” Enjolras says before he loses his nerve, stepping all the way into Grantaire’s room and closing the door behind him with a soft click. Grantaire's eyes widen in what looks like fear. “There was something I wanted to say to you.”

“Okay…” Grantaire says, reluctance clear in his voice. 

Enjolras takes a deep breath, suddenly feeling himself go hot under the collar of his shirt. “I wanted to apologize,” he says.

Grantaire looks lost. “For what?” he asks.

“For the way we ended things. Well, the way _I_ ended things,” Enjolras answers.

“Oh.”

“Leaving like that...it was a really awful thing to do to someone - especially you. And I am really, truly sorry.”

Grantaire’s eyes are boring into Enjolras’s own when he says, softly, “It’s okay, angel.” 

Enjolras feels the corner of his mouth twitch into an almost smile. “It’s not,” he replies. “But, at the time I knew if I didn’t leave that way then I never would. And I had to, Taire. We were hurting each other too much. But in the end, I just couldn’t look at your face and do it. I know that makes me a coward, and I’m not proud of it, but it is the truth.”

Grantaire is just staring at Enjolras, an unreadable expression on his face, so he keeps going. 

“It’s just, when I heard your song yesterday...it made me realize that you deserved an apology,” Enjolras continues, stuffing his hands in the pockets of his jacket. “And I’m sorry it took me so long to say it.” 

Enjolras takes a deep breath, and the two of them just look at each other for a few moments. After experiencing those flashbacks during the song, Enjolras is feeling a little like an open wound, exposed and hurting. Grantaire’s eyes are on him and it feels like he’s picking shards from Enjolras’s skin every time they drag across the lines of his body. 

“Can I hug you?” Grantaire asks.

Enjolras is so taken aback he’s sure it shows on his face, and he hates that because Grantaire is standing in front of him looking gutted and vulnerable, so he schools himself and says, “Of course, Taire. I, uh, would like that, actually.”

Grantaire smiles at him, it’s small and relieved and kind of painful, and when he steps forward to pull Enjolras against his chest, it’s almost too much. 

Enjolras wraps his arms around Grantaire’s waist, feels the hard planes of his back beneath his hands, and buries his face in the other man’s neck. He can smell Grantaire’s cologne and maybe his shampoo and definitely his cigarettes, and the feeling of him warm and solid in his arms is enough to make Enjolras want to cry. He realizes, then, that this is the first time he’s hugged Grantaire in...well, in a very long time. 

“I’m so fucking sorry, Enj,” Grantaire whispers into Enjolras’s ear, his voice wavering slightly. 

“Hey R - Oh, fuck! Nope, nope! I’m not here!” 

At that, Enjolras and Grantaire jump apart so fast it has to be some kind of record, and Enjolras pretends he doesn’t notice Grantaire wiping at his eyes. “My bad!” Bossuet calls, the door already closing behind him.

“He was probably sent to fetch us,” Grantaire says after a moment of awkward silence. “They all must be waiting on us.”

“Right,” Enjolras says, feeling a little unsteady on his feet. “We should go.” Grantaire holds the door open for Enjolras and as he steps through, he lets his fingertips slide along Grantaire’s hip. 

And finally, for the first time since he heard that song, Enjolras feels grounded.

  
  


“Wait - you’ve been arrested _eleven_ times?!” Bahorel balks, leaning forward to rest his forearms against his thighs. Enjolras feels himself blush at the question, and he’s grateful - not for the first time that night - that the club they’re at is dark enough to hide it. 

Their group is in the VIP section of an ultra-swanky, members-only nightclub in the city called _Drama._ They’re all seated in an enormous semi-circle booth made of a plush hot pink fabric, small tables set up every two to three people. Grantaire had paid for bottle service that night, so each tabletop was packed with glasses - some empty, some full - and everyone was well on their way to drunk.

“I’m telling you, this man was gonna change the world back then,” Grantaire says, his voice raised to be heard over the din of the club. He’s sitting next to Cosette, his arm slung across the back of the couch, and his eyes keep flicking to Enjolras every few seconds. (Hence the excessive blushing and gratitude for low lighting.) “A goddamn bleeding heart, he is,” Grantaire adds with a grin. 

“Yeah, but think less bake sales and more anarchy,” Cosette adds, winking at him. The group laughs at that, and Enjolras joins in, secretly hoping they can move the conversation to something other than him and his rebellious adolescence. Grantaire, however, seems to have other plans. 

“He wrote _Dust Bowl_ , ya know,” he says casually, smirking. He’s still looking at Enjolras again. It feels like he’s _always_ looking at Enjolras.

There is a sudden loud thump, and everyone startles, turning toward the sound. “No the fuck you did not,” Eponine is saying, her jaw dropping comically. She’s sitting on Feuilly’s lap, but had leaned forward to slam her highball onto the table in front of her in apparent shock at Grantaire’s words. 

“Yes the fuck he did,” the singer confirms, looking extremely pleased with himself as he no doubt watches Enjolras squirm under the attention. 

“Wow,” Eponine says then, sitting back until she's flush against Feuilly’s chest once more. “I’m actually impressed, Goldilocks.”

“Thank you?” Enjolras says, unsure if he’s actually being complimented or not. It’s never a sure thing when it comes to Eponine. 

“It’s our favorite song to play on tour, man,” Feuilly clarifies, and Enjolras feels a swell of pride in his chest. “Brings the house down every fucking time.”

When he turns to look at him again, Grantaire is raising his glass in a small, private toast, and Enjolras is pretty sure he’s never going to stop blushing. 

A little while later, their group had split and sectioned off into smaller groups. Feuilly and Eponine had disappeared to go dance, dragging Jehan and Bahorel along with them. Marius and Cosette moved to sit together at the bar, their heads bent close together as they spoke, both of them looking absolutely enthralled with the other. Enjolras had remained in their section with Joly, Bossuet, Musichetta, and of course, Grantaire, but at some point, the singer had gone to say hello to someone he recognized, and he hasn’t been back since.

Enjolras is mostly alone now - the throuple to his left becoming more and more preoccupied with each other the drunker they get - and he watches Grantaire from his place at the booth. His head is swimming a bit from the alcohol, and there’s an unpleasant stirring in his belly that he can’t quite name. 

Across the room, Grantaire is standing near the bar surrounded by a group of people, and every one of their eyes are glued to the man. Enjolras can’t really blame them. The thing is, Grantaire has always had this undeniable pull about him - an almost seductive aura that Enjolras has always been helpless to resist. And now that he’s _R_ , people all over the world are experiencing that same magnetism that once made Enjolras’s world turn. 

Which is fine.

Realy, it is. Enjolras certainly has no claim on Grantaire, and therefore certainly has no reason to feel any type of way about that fact. So he doesn’t.

It’s just that - Enjolras _has_ noticed that everywhere Grantaire goes, people want something from him. A picture, an autograph, a minute of his time. It seems exhausting and invasive, and all of that must be maddening for Grantaire. But what truly bothers Enjolras is how often people _touch him._

And Enjolras means this in an entirely objective bodily-autonomy-is-a-human-right kind of way.

At that moment, an admittedly beautiful woman slides two fingers through Grantaire’s belt loop and yanks him forward. Enjolras watches as he stumbles into her, one hand raising his glass in the air to avoid spilling it and the other reaching out to steady himself against the wall. The woman is now trapped between him and the mirrored wall of the club, so Enjolras can see Grantaire’s head angled down in the reflection, their faces very close. 

He’s up and out of his seat before he can even process what he’s doing. The sounds of the club have dulled into white noise inside his head, and the unpleasant feeling in his stomach has twisted into a tight, dark knot. 

By the time his feet have taken him halfway to Grantaire, the man in question has pulled away from the girl and is taking three long strides toward the bar where Cosette and Marius are sitting. Enjolras slows his steps, forcing himself to calm down and thanking whatever god may exist that he didn’t end up embarrassing himself like he was bound to do if he had reached Grantaire in time. 

His relief is short-lived, however, because a second later, Grantaire grabs a man by the shirt, yanks him from his barstool, and clocks him. 

“ _GRANTAIRE?!_ ” Cosette yells, jumping up from where she was sitting at the bar, right next to the man now writhing in pain on the ground. “ _WHAT THE HELL?!_ ”

Enjolras simply watches, frozen in place, as Grantaire straddles the man and continues to rain blows on him. “You think you can just fucking drug girls’ drinks, you piece of shit?!” Grantaire yells, and Enjolras flinches as he lands a particularly devastating hit to the guy’s jaw. Bahorel appears out of nowhere then, and luckily, the bassist is much larger than Grantaire, so he wraps his arms around his waist and yanks him off the man easily. Grantaire jerks and elbows until Bahorel releases him, and Enjolras is suddenly aware that people have pulled out their phones and are recording the entire incident.

“And why the fuck didn’t _you_ do anything?!” Grantaire yells as he stalks over to Marius, stopping when his face is mere inches from his manager’s. 

“I didn’t-” Whatever Marius is going to say is cut off by Grantaire shoving him, _hard._

“What the _fuck_ , Grantaire?!” Cosette yells, wrapping an arm around Marius protectively. 

“ _This fucker put something in your fucking drink, Cosette!_ ” Grantaire yells, his words slurring. It’s then that Enjolras realizes how drunk he is.

He’s still standing there, halfway to Grantaire, but he’s shaking, and his mind is flooded with so many memories of nights spent searching for Grantaire at bar after bar after bar. Nights spent cleaning up puke, spent scrubbing phone numbers off his boyfriend’s hands, spent lying awake at night just to make sure Grantaire was still breathing. _Hours and hours_ of worry.

He’s only vaguely aware of the continuing confrontation, now involving Grantaire, Marius, and a security guard. Marius seems to be attempting to calm down his friend, who seems to be taking turns yelling at Marius then at the guard then at everyone standing nearby.

“Enjolras?!” 

Enjolras snaps out of it at the sound of his name, and he turns to see Cosette looking at him desperately. Because, well, all those hours he spent taking care of his drunk boyfriend also meant that Enjolras had a lot of practice diffusing a belligerent Grantaire. 

He takes a deep breath, meeting Cosette’s pleading gaze, and walks over to Grantaire. He steps in between him and the security guard, placing a hand against his chest. He can feel his pounding heart beneath his palm when he says, gently, “Taire, please.” It takes a few seconds, but eventually, Grantaire’s bloodshot eyes focus on Enjolras’s face, and Enjolras can see some of the tension escape his body almost immediately. “Let’s go home.”

Grantaire simply looks at Enjolras for a long moment, and then he nods once and turns away toward the exit. They walk away together, and Enjolras reaches out to place a soothing hand on Grantaire’s back. Except that causes Grantaire to whip around so fast it actually makes Enjolras stumble backwards a bit, startled. “ _I’m not your fucking boyfriend!_ ” Grantaire yells, very loud and very close to Enjolras’s face. Jehan rushes over then, grabs Grantaire by the arm, and pulls him away from Enjolras and out the front door, Cosette following close behind. 

Enjolras is ushered into the back of an Uber, then, Eponine and Feuilly climbing in behind him and Bahorel taking the front seat. The entire ride back to the house is silent, and Enjolras is unbelievably grateful for that because he feels a little lightheaded and can’t get the sound of Grantaire’s words out of his head. 

Their car arrives back to the house first, and the four of them make their way inside. Eponine gets a text on her phone and informs them that Joly, Bossuet, and Musichetta had gotten their own cab back to Musichetta’s flat. They haven’t been in the house more than five minutes when Marius, Cosette, Jehan, and Grantaire walk in, the latter man stumbling a bit over the threshold. 

The atmosphere is tense almost immediately, everyone standing awkwardly throughout the sitting room, and it seems like they’re all trying - and failing - to not look at Grantaire. He obviously notices. 

“So what?” he snaps, spreading his arms out to his sides. “I fucking defend my friend from a goddamn rapist, and now you’re all looking at me like I’m the one who did something wrong?” 

Everyone is silent at that, many of them looking at their shoes or the wall or anywhere that isn’t Grantaire. Enjolras doesn’t feel right about that, so he takes a breath and says, “Grantaire-”

“You-!” Grantaire interrupts as soon as he hears Enjolras speak, his head snapping to him. He cuts himself off abruptly, clenching his jaw and taking a deep steadying breath. He continues, quieter but no less lethal, saying, “You don’t get to talk to me. You don’t get to sit there and look at me how you look at me and talk to me like we both aren’t fucking _sick with it_.”

Enjolras breath stutters at that. Grantaire is drunk and his words are nonsensical in a way, but the way he’s looking at Enjolras is making him feel like he’s being turned inside out. Enjolras is proud of how steady his voice is when he asks, “Is there something you want to say to me, Grantaire?”

Enjolras really wishes they weren’t having this conversation in front of all of Grantaire’s close friends. He laughs humorlessly, the sound jarring in the otherwise quiet room. “There’s about a hundred things I could say to you, Enjolras,” Grantaire says. His tone is dark, almost mocking.

“I’m all ears,” Enjolras says, equally viscous. 

“He’s not right for you.”

Enjolras freezes, his heart starting to hammer in his chest. This isn’t what he was expecting. “What?” he snaps.

“R, maybe you should-” Feuilly steps forward then, reaching out to place a firm hand on Grantaire’s chest. 

“He’s not right for you,” Grantaire repeats, louder this time, his bloodshot eyes boring into Enjolras’s own. He pays no mind to Feuilly, simply shrugs off the man’s attempts at diffusing the situation and pulls himself to his full height, as if physically standing behind his words. 

“How could you possibly know that?” Enjolras asks, feeling his anger rise with each passing moment. “You don’t know me anymore, Grantaire - it’s been four years since we’ve spoken to one another! How could you possibly know what’s right for me?!”

“Forget it,” Grantaire scoffs, waving a dismissive hand before burying both in his hair, but Enjolras is too pissed off to let this go that easily. Arguing with a drunk Grantaire is old hat, and he finds it a little scary how easy it is for him to fall back into the same toxic routine. 

“No, Grantaire. As always, you’ve got it all fucking figured out,” Enjolras says, his voice twisting into something ugly. “So, let’s hear it. Why isn’t Henry right for me?”

“ _Because you’re a fucking ghost, Enjolras!_ ” Grantaire yells, and Enjolras flinches - at the volume or the words he isn’t sure. The entire room goes very, very still. “Right now - you - this person in front of me? He’s nothing but a _shell_ of the man I fell in love with. The man I knew wouldn’t settle for comfort and convenience and vanilla dudes who wear suits and-” 

“Stop. You don’t know anything about him, Grantaire. Henry’s a good guy,” Enjolras says.

“I'm sure he is, and that’s precisely my point. Enjolras, you used to be _wild._ You used to be a force of fucking nature,” Grantaire says breathlessly. “The Enjolras I knew would have eaten this dude alive.”

“The Enjolras you knew? That Enjolras is gone, Grantaire. _You_ destroyed him. You destroyed _me,_ ” Enjolras pauses, feeling his words catch in his throat. Grantaire looks like he’s been punched in the gut, and something dark and twisted inside him is pleased to see it. Grantaire has caused Enjolras so much pain over the years, so much heartbreak, that a sick side of him wants to see Grantaire hurt the way he has hurt. “So, you know what? Let’s stop pretending, Grantaire. What you mean to say is that Henry isn’t you. Henry isn’t unpredictable or selfish or a _fucking alcoholic_. You’re saying that’s what I need?” Enjolras feels near hysterics at this point, and he laughs, knowing he sounds unhinged, before adding, “I mean maybe you’re right - it worked out so well the last time!” Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Cosette cover her face with her hand, as if trying to separate herself from the painful words being thrown back and forth. Grantaire deflates a little in front of Enjolras, so he sighs and says, softer, “Look, Henry may not be a fucking rockstar, okay? But he loves me and-”

“He can’t _possibly_ love you more than I do!” Grantaire interrupts, his voice a loud, desperate plea in the suddenly much too-crowded room. Everyone seems to be holding their breath, frozen in place as they stare at the floor, the wall, anywhere that isn’t the two men in front of them. Grantaire stiffens when he realizes what he’s just said, and there’s a split second of total fear in his eyes before he seems to resign himself to something and continues, much quieter, “It isn’t fucking possible, Enj. He can’t possibly love you so fucking much that he can barely breathe sometimes. He hasn’t spent the last _four_ years just... _aching_ with it. He hasn’t spent every day writing song after song after song about you - trying to, just, get you _out_ of him so he can function normally. He can’t possibly love you like that. If he did, you wouldn’t be here right now.”

Enjolras is silent, gritting his teeth in an effort to keep himself together. He feels like he may shake to pieces.

Cosette seems to remember herself first, closing the distance between herself and Grantaire. She mutters something in his ear, talking low so that Enjolras can’t make out her words, before pulling him away presumably toward his room. 

Jehan is standing next to Enjolras. He feels them rest their hand on his arm, and without really meaning to, Enjolras whips around to snap, “Don’t touch me!”

Enjolras knows he will have to apologize to Jehan for that later, but at the moment the only thing he can think about is getting to his room before he starts sobbing. 

He makes it, but it’s a close thing. 

  
  


“Hey.” Enjolras turns around to see Feuilly sliding open the glass door to the outdoor patio. After his argument with Grantaire, Enjolras had locked himself in his room and cried for about an hour straight, but eventually, he seemed to run out of tears, so he retreated outside with a six pack and the fluffiest blanket he could find.

“Hey.”

“You’re up late,” Feuilly observes. 

“Couldn’t sleep,” Enjorlas replies. 

“Me neither. Mind if I join ya?” Feuilly asks, and Enjolras shakes his head, gesturing toward the patio chair nearest him. Feuilly smiles and sits, stretching his legs out as Enjolras watches.

Feuilly is conventionally handsome, with a full beard and auburn hair currently pulled back with a red bandana. His movements are long and languid as he pulls out a cigarette and lights it, his slender fingers working with an ease that comes from a lot of repetition.

Enjolras reaches over then and hands him one of his beers, saying, “Save it. I’m aware I’m a huge hypocrite.”

Feuilly just laughs lightly as he accepts the beer from Enjolras with a grateful nod. “Nah. You’re not an alcoholic. It’s not the same,” he says casually. Enjolras doesn’t reply - doesn’t know how to reply - so Feuilly clears his throat and says, “I just thought I’d check on you.”

“Thanks. That’s kind of you,” Enjolras replies because it is. It’s also, as Enjolras is coming to realize, a very Feuilly thing to do. 

He makes a humming noise to acknowledge Enjolras’s gratitude, but otherwise says nothing. That’s another thing Enjolras likes about Feuilly. He’s comfortable in silence. A quiet pillar. 

“I think maybe I shouldn’t be here,” Enjolras hears himself say before he even forms the thought. He takes a long swig of his beer, draining his second bottle.

“Don’t say that,” Feuilly replies, turning his body to face Enjolras more fully. “We all want you here, man.” He nudges Enjolras’s shoulder with his fist, his lip quirked in a half smile. 

“It’s just - we’re all here _for_ him, you know?” Enjolras says, unsure how exactly to phrase what he means to say. He looks at Feuilly sheepishly. “I’m the grey cloud.”

“Enjolras, I think you underestimate that _yes_ we were all friends with R first, but _we’re also all friends with R._ We all know how he can be. Trust me, no one is blaming you.”

Enjolras feels his heart lodge in his throat at that. He knows Feuilly means it in a comforting way, but a sour guilt fills his belly when he thinks of the ways he’s hurt Grantaire in the past. The ways _he’s_ fucked up. He wonders how much his friends know.

 _What about when I packed all of my shit and left him in the middle of the night?_ Enjolras wants to ask. _Who do we blame for that?_

“How long have you known?” Enjolras asks then. At the other man’s confused expression, he clarifies, “How long have you known about Grantaire’s problem?”

Feuilly hums, taking a sip from his beer. “Pretty much from the start,” he answers, with a shrug. “I grew up in the system. I know an addict when I see one.”

“Oh.”

“It’s how I met Grantaire, you know,” he says then. “We were with the same foster family for a couple years when we were teenagers. It was one of the good ones, actually. Anyway, there was a shop not too far from the house that sold every kind of instrument you can imagine. We’d ride our bikes there almost every day and spend hours and hours just playing anything we could get our hands on - keyboard, the banjo, upright bass, you name it.”

Feuilly pauses, and Enjolras smiles at the image in his head of a 14-year-old Grantaire teaching himself to play guitar. “Can’t believe the owner let us hang ‘round so much, but you know R. Always such a charmer.”

“Trust me, I know,” Enjolras says, and they both laugh. 

“I think a lot of it had to do with how fucking talented the kid was, to be honest,” Feuilly says, a far away look in his eye, as if also picturing his friend back then. “It was like he was born knowing how to make music.” 

“I’m surprised Grantaire never told me this story,” Enjolras says then. “Although, I suppose he never really liked to talk about his childhood much.”

“Yeah, I’d suppose that wouldn’t be his favorite topic,” Feuilly answers darkly.

“So, how did you end up becoming a part of the band?” Enjolras asks, suddenly curious to know about their apparent reunion. 

“Oh, he tracked me down,” Feuilly says with a laugh. “It was about a year after the first album came out, I believe. Not even sure how he did it - I was in South America at the time.” 

“Sounds like Grantaire,” Enjolras says, looking up at the night sky. As they’re somewhere in the middle of London, the city is much too bright to see any stars. 

“Determined,” Feuilly agrees.

“I was going to say stubborn,” Enjolras teases. 

“So,” Feuilly starts after a few moments of quiet. “How did you two meet?” 

“Grantaire didn’t tell you?” Enjolras asks, turning to look at Feuilly. His face is angled toward the sky as well, his eyes shut as he kicks back with his hands behind his head. 

“He has,” Feuilly confirms. “I’m just curious how you remember it.” 

As Enjolras thinks back to that first time he laid eyes on Grantaire, all those years ago in the back corner of _Fantine’s,_ he feels a warmth of affection spread through his chest. After tonight - after the ugly words and painful memories - he thinks he wouldn’t mind talking about some of the happier times between him and Grantaire. So Enjolras does. And when he’s finished with the story, Feuilly turns to him and says, “I hope it’s not crossing any lines to say this, but...I think that’s the most I’ve seen you smile since we got here.” 

Later, after Enjolras has crawled back into the warmth of his bed, he falls asleep still smiling and dreams of hands playing the piano. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IM SORRY. I really have no excuse. At least it’s hopeful at the end?
> 
> Of course thank you so much for reading friends!! As always, your comments and kudos are so appreciated <3


	7. Fill the Silence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grantaire apologizes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone! I'm SO sorry this update took so long - this was a bitch of a chapter to write honestly. I hope you guys like it though! 
> 
> I don't believe there are any warnings for this one! 
> 
> Songs:  
> The Wild - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hlJgJ5N_Fpg  
> Lover of the Light - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nMJUbZrNnA8  
> and here's another version of Lover of the Light which would have been closer to how it sounded the first time R sang it for E - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MEEOmVYynpg  
> Picture You - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=akmXuykDP3Y

Enjolras wakes with a start. 

“Wha-?” he tries to say, but is cut off by a hand covering his mouth. 

“Shh, shh, shh,” Grantaire whispers above him, his palm heavy against his lips. Enjolras’s heart races. “It’s me, it’s Taire.”

“What’s wrong?” Enjolras whispers once Grantaire removes his hand. 

“Get dressed and meet me out front,” Grantaire whispers back, and then he’s gone. Enjolras lays there for a moment, pressing his palms to his eyes. 

“ _Fuck_ ,” he mumbles as he sits up, swinging his legs over the side of the bed until his feet hit the floor. He picks up his phone from the nightstand, squinting against the sudden brightness in the dark room. _3:37 AM,_ it reads.

It’s been a full day since he and Grantaire’s drunken fight, Enjolras having spent the past 24 hours in bed recovering from a truly debilitating hangover and Grantaire having spent the day god knows where doing god knows what. 

Enjolras had passed the time fluctuating between feeling sorry for himself and his poor, hungover body and obsessing over every word Grantaire had uttered into that unnavigable space between them the night before.

He’d called to chat with Combeferre at one point, played around with a couple of melodies on the keyboard, tried to spend a little time writing and researching for the blog until his headache made it virtually impossible to concentrate. At least, that’s what Enjolras preferred to blame his complete lack of focus on. It was easier to admit than the truth - that he was going out of his mind trying to process everything that’s happened since Grantaire waltzed back into his life nearly four months ago. 

He’d been wrong back then, back in New York. How could Enjolras have thought - for even a second - that Grantaire coming back into his life _wouldn’t_ turn his entire world upside down? How could he have thought that his presence wouldn’t change anything? Wouldn’t change _everything_ ? That’s what Grantaire _does._ He’d done it all those years ago, in the back room of _Fantine’s_ ; he’d come into Enjolras’s life and turned everything on end, had altered him forever before those first words even left his mouth. 

And the worst part in all of this is not knowing. Grantaire had been plastered that night, and Enjolras can’t be sure how much he remembers about what was said. Would he remember each and every detail the way Enjolras did? Or was the entire conversation lost to the blurring edges of too much booze in his system? 

Would it be better, he wondered, if Grantaire was blacked out? If he has no recollection of telling Enjolras that he’s still in love with him after four years? Would it be a relief if Grantaire just...didn’t remember? 

Truthfully, Enjolras has no idea what outcome he’s hoping for. 

Nevertheless, Enjolras is joining Grantaire at the front of the house less than ten minutes later. When he opens the door, he finds him smoking a cigarette, wearing a black hoodie and black jeans torn at the knees. His curls are completely hidden under both a green beanie and the hood of his sweatshirt. He looks tired, but he smiles upon seeing Enjolras and despite everything that’s happened, he can’t help but smile back. 

“Mornin’,” Grantaire says, his voice still rough with sleep. 

“Not sure this qualifies as ‘morning,’” Enjolras says, and Grantaire laughs, his hooded eyes brightening some in the early darkness. “I may actually be sleep-walking.” 

“Come on then,” Grantaire says with a soft smile, inclining his head toward the street. “Let’s get some coffee in ya.” 

They walk the two blocks to the nearest 24-hour coffee shop in silence, and Grantaire sends Enjolras inside for the drinks while he calls an Addison Lee. It’s quiet as the two of them wait for their ride, the only sounds around them are birds chirping in the distance and the soft bustle of early-morning (or late night?) commuters. Grantaire keeps glancing down at his phone every few seconds, and he looks almost nervous, rocking back and forth on the soles of his feet. 

London is grey and foggy that morning, the sky full of a mist-like rain that really doesn’t require an umbrella. It’s a little chilly out as well, and Enjolras shivers, wrapping his arms around himself as best he can without spilling his coffee.

Grantaire must notice this, because the next second he’s yanking off his hat and pulling the beanie down over Enjolras’s head. “You don’t have-” he tries to say.

“You lose a lot of heat through your head,” Grantaire explains, reaching up to push strands of Enjolras’s hair out of his face. It isn’t until Grantaire turns away, pulling his hood back up and refocusing his attention to the screen of his phone, that Enjolras realizes he’d been holding his breath.

Their car pulls up not too long after that, and they climb into the back, Grantaire spreading his legs wide enough that their knees bump together, and Enjolras feels himself smirk at this. It’s one of Grantaire’s bad habits - _manspreading,_ as Cosette had always claimed anytime she was unlucky enough to be stuck next to him on the train back home. 

Less than fifteen minutes later, they are arriving at their destination, and Enjolras is grateful for it. The two of them had barely said two words to each other the entire ride, a strange but expected tension mixing between them. It makes Enjolras think that Grantaire remembers at least _some_ of their conversation. 

Grantaire climbs out of the car first and Enjolras follows, frowning when he sees where they are. “The London Eye?” he asks, looking up at the enormous ferris wheel in front of them. 

“Wicked, yeah?” Grantaire says with a grin. “Ever been on it?”

“No, I haven’t,” Enjolras replies, still looking up. “But uh, Taire? Something tells me they aren’t letting people on at 4 in the morning.” 

“Course they’re not letting people on at 4 in the morning,” Grantaire confirms, his tone wry. “Levi is letting _us_ on at 4 in the morning.”

“Levi?”

“Friend of mine,” Grantaire shrugs. “Owes me a favor. I sang at his son’s bar mitzvah last year.” 

“And this is how you decide to cash in?” Enjolras asks, amused. “A little crack-of-dawn spin around the tallest ferris wheel in Europe?” 

Grantaire grins. “Best view in town,” he says, eyebrows raised devilishly. “You comin’ or not?”

Grantaire turns to walk away and Enjolras watches his receding back for a few moments before he sighs, shaking his head fondly, and jogs to catch up.

They’re met at the Eye by a man Enjolras can only assume is Levi. He and Grantaire embrace upon seeing each other, Grantaire introducing Enjolras, who shakes Levi’s hand politely. “How’s Daniel?” Grantaire asks, stuffing his own hands in the pocket of his hoodie.

“Daniel is wonderful,” Levi says proudly. “He says kids are _still_ talking about you showing up, so thank you again, R.”

“Hey, thank _you_ for doing this, man,” Grantaire says, ducking his head a little. “You sure you aren’t going to get in any trouble for it?”

“Nah,” Levi says, choosing not to elaborate. He looks down at his watch then, and frowns. “You lads ready? Takes about half hour around, and I don’t want you to miss it.”

Enjolras doesn’t know what he’s talking about, and he doesn’t have a chance to ask before he’s being herded into one of the ferris wheel’s carriages.

It’s a large, oval capsule made almost entirely of windows. There is an oval-shaped wooden bench sitting in the center, but the two of them forgo this to stand against the railing at one rounded end of the carriage instead. 

It does take about 15 minutes for them to get to the top, and like most of the morning, their ascent is almost entirely silent. Enjolras wants desperately to fill it with conversation, but he doesn’t trust what may come out of his mouth if he tries. 

The sky is still relatively dark as they reach the tallest part of the ferris wheel, but within minutes Enjolras can see a sliver of sun peeking up over the horizon. It’s then that Enjolras realizes Grantaire has brought him to the top of the London Eye to watch the _sunrise._

To his right, Grantaire is shrunk down inside his sweatshirt, most of his face obscured by the hood, but the parts Enjolras can see are slowly becoming illuminated with saturated oranges and rich magentas as the sun continues to reveal itself. 

As he watches this unfold along Grantaire's face, Enjolras wishes that he knew what the man was thinking. Another part of him, a part of him that has been sneaking to the surface ever-so-subtly over the past few weeks, wishes he could reach out and touch him. 

Next to Enjolras, Grantaire starts humming.

_What’s that I see?_

_I think it’s the wild_

_Puts the fear of God in me_

He’s singing so softly, his voice no less beautiful, and after a few moments of quiet, Enjolras asks, “What was that? Something you’re working on?”

“What?” Grantaire says too quickly, turning to Enjolras as if just remembering he was there. 

Enjolras smirks at that, completely unsurprised that Grantaire doesn’t seem to have realized he was even singing out loud. “You were singing something just then,” Enjolras tells him. “It sounded really beautiful. I was just curious if it was something new you’d written.”

“Oh, uh, yeah,” Grantaire stutters, looking away from Enjolras to his shoes. “I’ve had an idea for a song called “The Wild.” I’m thinking of keeping a lot of hi-fi instrumentals in it and just doing a lead track over it - no harmonies, you know? I was actually hoping you could write the piano for it.”

Enjolras feels a pleased flutter in his stomach at that, and he bites the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling too ridiculously. “I’d love to,” he says. 

Grantaire smiles back at him and then both men turn to look out the windows of the cabin at the view before them.

The sky looks like a painting now, all bright purples and deep reds, and the sunrise illuminates Big Ben and Westminster Abbey and the rest of the London skyline as it rises higher and higher. Below them, the Thames sparkles in the fresh light and curious shadows dance across the water’s surface. 

Enjolras turns to look at Grantaire once more, just as the man opens his mouth to speak. 

“Look, E, I wanted…” he says, turning abruptly from the view and crossing the few steps to sit down on the bench. Grantaire pauses for a moment to run a hand through his messy hair before pulling his hood back up and continuing, “I wanted to apologize for...well. You obviously know what for.”

 _That confirms it then_ , Enjolras thinks. “Which part?” he asks as he joins Grantaire, sitting down next to him, so close their shoulders brush. 

“Hm?” Grantaire hums.

“Which part are you apologizing for? What you said about me and Henry or what you said about me and you?” Enjolras clarifies.

Grantaire is thoughtful for a few breaths. “What I said about Henry wasn’t cool. But I don’t think I can be sorry for the rest of it,” Grantaire says truthfully. “You don’t have to have a response or anything. I just feel like it’s something I’ve been needing to say for a while. And I’m sorry to put that on you, but I can’t lie and say I regret it.”

Enjolras had forgotten how disarmingly honest Grantaire could be at times. He squeezes his own knees, trying to formulate a response.

“I feel...kind of _free_ ,” Grantaire adds, and Enjolras, meanwhile, feels like he’s been punched in the chest. Grantaire lets out a breathy laugh. “Sorry, is that fucked to say?”

 _Kind of._ “Of course not.”

“I guess it’s just - a lot of what was keeping me so _gone_ for you was the fact that I imagined things would be different if you knew I still loved you. But now, I know that you knowing doesn’t actually change anything. So, hopefully, I can - _I don’t know_ \- try to move on or something.” 

Enjolras feels lightheaded. He tries to speak but no words come. 

“Although,” Grantaire continues, saving him. He laughs again, but this time it’s a bitter sound. “I suppose it was always just an excuse. To soften the blow, you know? Cause, I mean, play basically any one of my songs and I’m sure it was obvious.”

 _It wasn’t obvious,_ he wants to tell him. _Or maybe I just couldn’t let myself go there,_ he doesn’t say.

“I lied to you,” Grantaire says then. “I guess that’s also obvious at this point.”

This gives Enjolras pause. “Lied to me about what?” he asks. 

“The drinking.” A breath. He clears his throat. “I’ve _tried_ , you know? But I’m always touring, and I love it, but it’s fucking lonely being on the road. It’s just…it’s virtually impossible to be sober in this industry, I’ve tried.” 

He looks miserable, but his jaw is set like he’s trying to stand by his words, even as the excuses fall flimsily from his tongue. 

“I know, Taire,” Enjolras says anyway, because Grantaire looks so lovely in the sunshine and because he took Enjolras onto a ferris wheel just to say sorry and because now just isn’t the time. All Enjolras wants is to comfort him in some way, so he rests his head onto Grantaire’s shoulder and hopes it says what he can’t. The two of them sit like that for a few moments, staring ahead at the sky. Enjolras feels rather than sees when Grantaire turns toward him, his chin bumping lightly against the top of Enjolras’s head. 

He pulls away slightly and looks up at Grantaire, suddenly very aware of how close they are. Grantaire’s eyes flicker to Enjolras’s lips, and it’s only for a fraction of a second, but it causes a sharp pang deep in his gut just the same. Enjolras’s chest is rising and falling with his obvious, labored breaths, and it would be so easy, he thinks, to just lean in closer and then he realizes that he has and that Grantaire has met him halfway and their lips are only a breath apart when -

\- the cabin lurches forward and the ferris wheel starts back up with a loud _clunk_ . 

The two of them pull away immediately, Enjolras going so far as to stand up from his seat. His heart is pounding erratically in his chest and he realizes vaguely that Grantaire is talking, but all he can hear is his own voice in his head saying _I almost kissed Grantaire, I almost kissed Grantaire, holy shit, I almost kissed Grantaire._

“That was a mistake,” Enjolras blurts suddenly, his throat so dry he feels like he can barely speak. 

If Grantaire reacts to this, it’s there only a second, and then he’s schooling himself and saying, “Nothing happened, Enjolras.”

“Right,” Enjolras says, looking away guilty. At this point, his brain is just screaming, _fuck fuck fuck fuck._ He’s starting to sweat. “What were you saying?”

“Just that Levi said we’d only have ten minutes or so at the top,” Grantaire repeats. 

“Right,” Enjolras says again. After a moment, he sits back down on the bench. This time, they’re nowhere near each other.

Out of the corner of his eye, Enjolras sees Grantaire retrieve a flask from his pocket with shaking hands. 

The rest of the ride is silent.

Levi is there when they exit the carriage, smiling wide. “How was it?” he asks. 

Grantaire, thankfully, has a much better poker face than Enjolras, and he simply smiles and thanks Levi sincerely and makes him promise to say hello to Daniel for him.

Grantaire starts walking then, and Enjolras can do nothing but fall in step beside him as he tries to think of something to say.

Eventually, Grantaire is the one who clears his throat and says, “I had one more stop if that’s alright with you…”

Enjolras nods too quickly. “That’s fine,” he says. 

And so they walk several blocks, and Grantaire, having broken the initial silence, starts commenting on things they pass here and there, occasionally telling stories and anecdotes about the bars and restaurants and shops around them. At one point, Grantaire comes to a sudden stop, looks at Enjolras sheepishly, inclining his head at the doughnut shop they’re in front of. “Two more stops?” he asks cheekily, and Enjolras smiles and follows Grantaire inside. They leave with four dozen doughnuts which Enjolras thinks is a little excessive, but Grantaire had just shushed away his concerns and loaded him up with his half of the boxes. 

Their destination is thankfully just around the corner from there, and when they reach it, Grantaire simply stands on the sidewalk and stares at the building as if in deep thought.

“Do you remember how my lawyer sent you the paperwork for you to sign over your rights to the songs we wrote?” he asks, turning to Enjolras suddenly.

“Of course I do,” Enjolras answers, and Grantaire grimaces. 

“Yeah...I’m sorry about that, E,” he says.

“Ancient history,” Enjolras says, and it’s mostly true, though Enjolras _had_ cried for nearly three days straight after he received those documents. “Why do you ask?”

“Well, I guess it never felt right - doing that to you,” Grantaire says, looking at Enjolras in a way that’s begging to be understood. “So I decided a long time ago that I wouldn’t keep any profits from those songs. Then I just decided...the whole fucking album.” He shrugs. “Anyway, uh, instead, I donate it all to this place,” he finishes, nodding his head toward the building in front of them. 

Enjolras is trying to keep up but his heart is pounding loudly, distractingly, in his ears. “And what exactly is this place?” he asks, careful to keep his voice even. 

“It’s a youth home,” Grantaire says. “For queer kids who would otherwise be living on the streets or in the system.” Grantaire is chewing on his lip nervously. Around them, London has officially started the day, the streets growing busier and noisier by the minute.

Enjolras, on the other hand, is speechless. “Grantaire…”

“All of the donations have technically been anonymous, but I’ve visited enough that I think they’ve moved beyond suspicion to basically appointing me chairman of the board,” Grantaire says with a laugh, and Enjolras joins in breathlessly, still trying to wrap his mind around this news. They’re both still holding the boxes of doughnuts, and Enjolras has never wanted to hug Grantaire more.

“R!” comes a voice near them, and both men turn to the source to see a very small, middle aged woman standing on the stoop outside the youth home, her hands on her hips as she smiles over at them.

“Mrs. H!” Grantaire replies, his face lighting up upon seeing the woman. He hurries to meet her, planting kisses on both of her cheeks. “Alright?”

“Of course I’m alright!” Mrs. H says. “Is everything alright with you? We weren’t expecting to see you so soon after your last visit.”

“I’m wonderful,” Grantaire says, batting away Mrs. H’s hands as she tries to relieve him of the doughnuts. “We brought breakfast for the kids, and I wanted you to meet someone. This is Enjolras. Enjolras, this is Mrs. H, she's the director here.”

“It’s very nice to meet you,” Enjolras says with a polite smile. 

“You as well,” she says, smiling warmly in reply. “Please, please, come inside. Fancy a cuppa?” 

They follow the woman into the building, a brick townhouse not unlike the one they’re staying at, although this one is considerably more worn, more lived-in. Past the entryway is a large living room area with multiple couches, backpacks tossed around and shoes kicked off and forgotten.

It’s still early, and the house is relatively quiet, but Mrs. H assures them it won’t be for long. 

“Alarms will start going off in about half an hour,” she says as she leads them into the kitchen and starts making a pot of tea. They chat idly for a while, Enjolras feeling far too overwhelmed to contribute properly, and he thinks Grantaire notices this because at one point, he extends his long legs under the table until they’re tangled up with Enjolras’s own, until their feet are pressed together. It helps almost immediately.

“Alright, dear?” Mrs. H asks him as she walks over to the table with their tea, resting a reassuring hand on his shoulder. Grantaire’s foot presses more firmly against his. 

“I’m fine, thank you,” Enjolras says, shaking himself a little and smiling up at her. “I’m just a little speechless at seeing all of...this,” he finishes, gesturing to the room at large. 

The kitchen they’re in is entirely too small for a household of this size, but Mrs. H seemed right at home in it as she bustled around preparing their tea. There are shiny copper pots hanging from the ceiling, dented and scratched from years of use, and a butcher block in the center of the room, wooden bowls overflowing with pears and apricots. The fridge is covered in photographs and reminders and test papers proudly brandishing hard-fought Bs. 

The sight makes Enjolras’s heart clench in his chest, and he can’t help but feel an overwhelming sense of pride at the fact that (apart from Mrs. H, of course) Grantaire is essentially the one making it all happen. 

Mrs. H smiles in return, but there’s a slight hint of confusion in the pull of her brow. Enjolras turns to Grantaire for assistance, and across the table, the singer smirks, crosses his arms over his chest, and says, “Mrs. H, you know how every year we get that anonymous donation from that very anonymous unknown person?” 

Enjolras narrows his eyes at him. 

“You mean the donation that makes up 70% of our annual budget?” Mrs. H returns with a smirk of her own. “Yes, I’m familiar.” 

“Well, it turns out the donor is not so anonymous, anymore,” Grantaire says, and Enjolras feels his eyes go wide.

“ _Taire,”_ he says, muttering the warning under his breath.

Mrs. H’s eyes widen as she looks from Grantaire to Enjolras and back. Finally, she turns slowly to Enjolras and says, “Young man?” It’s clear she means, _explain yourself._

“I, uh-”

“Thank you, thank you, thank you,” Mrs. H interrupts, apparently considering this an admission of guilt, clearly too ecstatic to care about a real answer. She leans down to reel Enjolras in for a tight hug, and Enjolras stands clumsily to meet her embrace. She’s crying real tears now, and Enjolras isn’t faring much better, his eyes welling up while he simultaneously glares daggers at Grantaire. “You’re an angel, young man. An _angel,_ ” she’s saying. 

“Told ya I had nothin’ to do with it,” Grantaire says cheekily.

Enjolras balks at this and pulls away from the hug to choke out, “He was involved!” Then, “Grantaire!” he says, looking at the man pointedly. He turns to Mrs. H resolutely and repeats, “He was involved.” 

Mrs. H just looks between the two of them for a moment, her eyes still watery, before laughing delightedly and pulling Grantaire from his seat to give them both a tight, grateful hug. Enjolras and Grantaire make eye contact over Mrs. H’s head, and Grantaire winks at him, and Enjolras’s heart feels close to bursting.

“You have to come back in June for our Pride Celebration!” Mrs. H says, trailing behind Enjolras and Grantaire as they shuffle down the long hallway leading to the front door. It’s nearing 9AM, which means they’ve spent the last three hours here, chatting with Mrs. H and eating doughnuts with the kids until they all had to rush out the front door to make it to school on time. One of the older teens pulled out a guitar during breakfast, and naturally, everyone bullied Grantaire into playing a few songs for them. He sang _Hopeless Wanderer_ and _Wilder Mind_ and _The Cave_ \- all by request - and everything was fine until Mrs. H requested _Lover of the Light_ and Enjolras had felt all the blood rush from his face. But Grantaire had simply laughed and patted Mrs. H’s knee and said, _Next time. I gotta get back before they come looking for me. I’m a very famous rockstar, you know. Next time, I promise._ And Enjolras had breathed a sigh of relief.

“Oh! And in December for our Christmas Gala!” Mrs. H adds, pulling Enjolras’s attention back to the present.

“Add me to the list,” Enjolras says, meaning it. He thinks absently that Combeferre and Courfeyrac may want to come as well, and it’s this thought that gives Enjolras another idea. “I also wanted to ask if you would be comfortable with me interviewing you for the blog? Maybe do a profile of the work you’re doing?” 

“Anything you need, sweetheart,” Mrs. H replies immediately, patting his cheek fondly. Grantaire had pulled up Enjolras’s website when Mrs. H had asked about his career, and they’d both praised his work - loudly and far too enthusiastically, like he wasn’t sitting right next to them - and Enjolras thinks he may still be blushing from it. “R has my number, give me a ring anytime.”

Mrs. H forces them into a few more rounds of hugs and as Grantaire skips out the door, she pulls Enjolras close and says, low for only him to hear, “You’ll take care of him for us, won’t you?” To which, Enjolras can only nod. 

They start walking once they leave the youth home, both seemingly content to keep a leisurely pace as a silence settles over them. It’s different from the rest of the morning’s quiet - it’s not loaded with something Enjolras can’t name, it’s comfortable and reflective and even, he thinks, filled with something like happiness.

This doesn’t last, of course, because a thought has been poking at the back of Enjolras’s mind for a while now, a question he knew he’d _have_ to ask eventually. It’s no secret Enjolras doesn’t know how to leave well enough alone. 

“I was surprised, you know,” he says as casually as possible. “That you released that one.” Which is the understatement of the century, but it’s not as if he can tell the truth. The words _earth-shatteringly devastated_ might be a little much right now. 

“Which one?” Grantaire asks, and Enjolras gives him a pointed look.

“You know which one,” he says. 

Grantaire laughs in a way that sounds more like a grunt and says, “The truth is, I’d drank an entire handle of vodka and was missing you a little too much.”

Enjolras doesn’t know what to make of that. He’d been expecting something more, certainly - something a _little_ more consequential to have been the catalyst for Grantaire choosing to release his song.

Because Grantaire wrote _Lover of the Light_ the same night he met Enjolras, sitting on the floor of the crowded store room at _Fantine’s_ (hiding from Cosette, no doubt) as he frantically scribbled the lyrics inside his notebook, the words pouring from him within minutes. 

Or, at least, that’s how Grantaire had described it the first time he’d played the song for Enjolras. They had just had sex - Enjolras for the very first time and Grantaire for the first time that mattered - and then, Grantaire had poured his heart out, singing for only Enjolras’s ears, words written only for him. Of course, that very first rendition had been softer, gentler than the finished version that appeared on Grantaire’s second album, innocuously placed near the middle of the track listing, just sitting there like it wasn’t about to rip Enjolras’s heart into a million little pieces as soon as he hit play.

Grantaire had one conversation with Enjolras and decided to lay himself bare, to invite him in and to offer up everything he had for the taking. And to know this beautiful, complex man had created something that vulnerable, that painfully honest and hopeful and unashamed, after knowing him for only hours? Enjolras still gets goosebumps when he thinks about it. 

Back then, in the tiny bedroom of Enjolras’s tiny apartment, it had been only Grantaire and his guitar, and his voice had been raw and wrecked from sex. Everything about Grantaire that night - the way he looked at him, sang to him, the way his body curved toward him - said to Enjolras, _I’m yours, do with me as you please._

Grantaire had whispered the promise against Enjolras’s throat that same night, _It’s for you, angel, only for you, always for you._

You see, Grantaire has written many, many songs _about_ Enjolras, but _Lover of the Light_ is the only song written _for_ Enjolras.

“You broke your promise,” Enjolras says, careful to keep his voice free of any discernible emotion. 

Grantaire stops them both with a hand on Enjolras’s arm. 

“E, I didn’t think…” he stops, looking at Enjolras for a few breaths, searching his face for something. He continues, “I didn’t think you’d care. I was trying to get a reaction out of you because I...I didn’t think you’d care.” 

“Of course I cared,” Enjolras says, sharper than he intended. 

There is silence for a long moment. “Well, what did you think of the final version?” Grantaire asks, a teasing quality to his voice. 

Enjolras smiles despite himself. “It’s a great song, Taire,” he says. “The horns are killer, but that’s besides the point.”

Grantaire is smiling fully now and it’s still there when he reaches out to lightly squeeze one of Enjolras’s hands and say, “I’m sorry if I hurt you, E.”

“Ancient history,” Enjolras repeats, squeezing Grantaire’s hand back, and somehow, he’s able to smile in return. 

“Oh my god, um, hi? Oh my god, I’m so sorry, I’m a really big fan, oh my god,” a voice says very quickly and very near them, and the two men turn to see a young woman with blue hair looking at Grantaire with wide eyes and a wider smile. “I’m so sorry, I’ve just always wanted to meet you!”

Something shifts almost immediately in Grantaire; Enjolras watches it happen. He’s still the same funny, easygoing, magnetic man Enjolras knows, but it’s like he turns something on inside himself, his eyes becoming a little brighter, his shoulders set just a little straighter. Like he’s becoming _R._ Enjolras doesn’t know what to think of that. 

“Hi, how are you, darling?” he says, leaning in for a hug that the woman hurriedly accepts. “What’s your name?”

“Julia,” the woman says, and her voice is shaking slightly. “I can’t believe this is happening. I’m a huge fan. I've seen you in concert six times.”

Enjolras takes a few steps away then, just to give them some semblance of privacy and scrolls through his phone while they chat for a few minutes. He isn’t sure how to feel about what he’s seeing happen inside Grantaire, doesn’t think it’s his place to analyze, doesn’t know what he’d do with his findings if they were any.

At one point, Grantaire looks over and asks Enjolras to take a photo of them. 

“Sure,” he replies, walking back over and accepting the fan’s phone from Grantaire’s hand. 

He takes the photo for them, Grantaire doing a thumbs-up at the camera while the girl tries not to cry next to him. 

The fan - Julia - turns to Grantaire then, pulling up the sleeve of her shirt to show him the tattoo on her forearm. Enjolras watches as Grantaire leans in close to inspect it, and he snaps a few more pictures of them while he’s at it.

Grantaire and Julia say their goodbyes eventually, Grantaire giving her another hug before she scurries away, typing frantically on her phone. 

“Let’s get a car,” Grantaire says as he walks over to stand at Enjolras’s side, pulling out his own phone. “I don’t feel like getting recognized again.” It doesn’t take long before a taxi is pulling up next to them and they’re climbing in, sitting flush against each other in the backseat. “She has some lyrics from _After the Storm_ tattooed on her,” Grantaire says after a while.

“Oh, that’s sweet,” Enjolras replies, bumping his shoulder into Grantaire’s goodnaturedly. 

Grantaire bumps back, smirking over at him, and says, “Yeah, I didn’t have it in my heart to tell her you wrote them.” 

Enjolras is exhausted by the time they return to the house, so he immediately retreats to his bedroom. He simply didn’t have the energy to be around Grantaire any longer, not after their almost-kiss, after the revelation of the youth home, after the confessions and the touches and the weighted looks. _God,_ and that really was the worst part - catching the glances Grantaire is always sending his way, trying to decode what they might mean, what the man behind them is thinking, what his eyes are seeing when they look at him in ways no else does.

So, yes, Enjolras chooses to hide in his bedroom because that’s a little bit too much to think through when one has been awake since 4AM. 

Grantaire, on the other hand, because he never seems to stop working, goes immediately instead to the basement studio. This is where Enjolras finds him hours later, well into the evening in fact. He’s surprised to find that just about everyone is there, actually, and there’s not many places left to sit but Enjolras is eventually able to squeeze next to Bahorel on one of the sofas. 

Grantaire is standing in front of the white board where he keeps track of the songs he’s working on, the end of a marker caught between his teeth. He’s mussed, his hair and clothes a wrinkled mess, and yet, he commands the room. 

“I still don’t feel like we have an opening track,” he’s saying as he writes _The Wild_ under the “priorities” column.

“Not _Guiding Light_?” Joly asks.

“Mm mm,” Grantaire mutters, shaking his head. “It’s not the one.”

“You’ll know it when you hear it,” Enjolras says, and Grantaire whips around at the sound of his voice and grins. His eyes are glossy, his cheeks warm.

“Nice of you to join us, sleepyhead,” Grantaire says. Enjolras notices immediately - almost absently - that he’s drunk.

“Sorry,” Enjolras replies. “Didn’t get a lot of sleep. Something woke me up _really_ early this morning.”

“Oh?” Grantaire asks, playing along. “Have you got any idea what it was?”

“Hm,” Enjolras hums, pretending to think. “Some type of pest, maybe.”

Grantaire’s grin widens, and he opens his mouth to speak when Joly turns to him suddenly and asks, his accent even more apparent in his enunciation, “Like a _rodent_?”

To which Grantaire and Enjolras simply burst out in laughter that lasts so long, Enjolras has to wipe tears from his eyes afterwards and Joly seems to give up on receiving an answer after his pleas of _What are you two on about?_ go ignored. 

Turns out, Joly has finished the master of _Picture You_ , the first song Enjolras had heard Grantaire working on all those weeks ago. He’s feeling a little too big for his skin at the moment because Grantaire has been sending those looks his way since he joined them in the studio, and it’s making him feel nervous to hear the song for some reason. 

Oblivious to Enjolras’s inner turmoil, Joly presses play, and they’re met with the overwhelming feeling of synthesizers permeating the room, sliding between their bones and rattling under their skin. Grantaire makes a low whistle at that as he begins snapping along to the ones on the track. 

Joly has the volume turned _loud_ \- Grantaire’s preferred method of listening to a song for the first time - and Grantaire is dancing and lip-syncing the words, and it makes Enjolras smile, unable to tear his eyes away.

_If I could tell you no_

_I thought it best you didn’t know_

_Don’t see it coming_

_The darkness visible_

The song continues around them, Grantaire becoming more and more enthusiastic as it reaches its second verse. 

_When the night falls fast_

_I know it’s heavy on the skin_

_Will it be ever thus_

_But barely visible_

“Good call on dropping low at the end!” Grantaire calls over to Bossuet, raising his voice to be heard over the music, and the engineer sticks his tongue out and flashes a “rock on” sign in return. 

_But when your eyes fix mine_

_Embracing your denial_

_Well I hold my breath_

_Through the waste and the wild_

As the song builds and reaches its ends, Grantaire jumps on the coffee table, knocking over a half empty beer bottle that Enjolras hurries to right, laughing at the singer’s excitement as he does. Grantaire doesn’t seem to notice any of this, simply waves his arms, pumping them toward the ceiling in time with the music. 

Enjolras looks up at him, and he knows he’s grinning ridiculously, but Grantaire’s enthusiasm for his - _their_ \- art is so infectious he can’t seem to stop.

The final notes ring out, and seconds after the song ends, the room, which was previously bathed in soft, barely-there light from two lamps in either corner of the studio, is doused in blinding fluorescents. 

Everyone protests loudly, turning to see Marius standing next to the lightswitch, arms crossed over his chest. “We may have a problem.” 

“Buzzkill,” Grantaire says, letting his arms drop unceremoniously to his sides, but making no move to vacate the coffee table. 

Marius holds his phone up in front of Grantaire’s face, who squints at it curiously as he reads what’s on the screen. 

-

**R and Unknown Beau Involved in Scuffle at London Nightclub**

-

“Can I see that?” Enjolras asks thickly, tries to calm his shaking nerves. Marius hands the phone over, and Grantaire watches this exchange, his eyes studying Enjolras’s expression intently. Enjolras skims through the article quickly, scrolling until he reaches the accompanying video and presses play. 

The video was clearly taken by one of the club-goers, as it begins with footage of a redhead dancing, her friend filming her for only a few seconds before the shot is zooming in to Grantaire across the room. It happens almost too fast to catch, but it’s still pretty clear when Grantaire stalks over to the man at the bar and throws his first punch. You can hear the person recording curse in surprise as they attempt to get a better view of Grantaire, now straddling the guy on the floor as he continues to throw punches. The video shows Bahorel pulling Grantaire off the man, shows Grantaire yelling at Marius, and finally, shows Enjolras standing a breath apart from him, resting his hand on his chest, calming him down.

Fuck.

 _Has Henry seen this?_ Enjolras wonders. He looks down at his watch, quickly does the work in his head and realizes it’s 3 o’clock in the morning in San Diego. 

Enjolras reads through the article again and takes a deep breath, trying to reassure himself. _Everything will be fine_ , he thinks. As Grantaire had said back on the ferris wheel, nothing happened. Enjolras hasn’t done anything to feel ashamed of yet. All these feelings resurfacing - all these conflicting, entirely new emotions he’s experiencing - surely, this is to be expected, right? Enjolras and Grantaire’s relationship had been intense and passionate, but when it ended, there hadn’t been any closure between them.

That’s what all of this is about, Enjolras realizes then. The almost-kiss, the youth home, this album, this trip. Once this is all over, Enjolras will go back home, back to his life with Henry, and Grantaire will...keep being an international rockstar. They’ll both finally be able to close a chapter that should have been finished a long time ago. Grantaire had said it himself, he wants to move on.

Enjolras just has to let him.

“Fuck that, I didn’t do anything wrong. I’m not going to apologize for punching that arsehole,” Grantaire is saying when Enjolras finally rejoins the conversation, handing Marius his phone back. He’s finally stepped down from the coffee table.

“No one is saying that, Taire,” Cosette is explaining. “In fact, I’m very grateful. It’s just that-”

Everyone starts talking at once then, trying to be heard over each other, while Enjolras is careful to keep his mouth shut and decidedly _out of it._

“The video doesn’t show-”

“You have to think about-”

“I know you don’t-”

“Look, it’s handled innit?!” Grantaire says suddenly, loudly, to the room at large, waving his phone around. Marius gets an alert on his own phone at the same time, and he glances down at the screen in his hand. 

Enjolras peeks over Grantaire’s shoulder to see what he means, and Grantaire notices, holding the phone up for Enjolras to see what he’s tweeted. 

**@R_Official** he was a dodgy fucker. would punch again xx

“Oh Christ,” Marius mutters as he reads this as well, and Enjolras has to suppress a grin. 

-

 **@littlelionman_R** I AM LITERALLY STILL SHAKING I MET R TODAY ON MY WAY TO WORK AND OMFG HE WAS SO SWEET & FUNNY & SMELLED SO GOOD BUT *GUYS* HE WAS WITH HOT BLONDE!!!!!! I WAS TOO SHY TO ASK HIS NAME BUT R CALLED HIM E???? & HE WAS SO PRETTY???? & NICE??? & R ASKED HIM TO TAKE OUR PICTURE???

 **@littlelionman_R** OMG I CANT BELIEVE I FORGOT TO SAY HOT BLONDE WAS WEARING R’S FUCKING GREEN BEANIEEEEEEE

 **@littlelionman_R** OH and he took these candids of me and R when I was showing him my tattoo ;__; 

**@littlelionman_R** For people asking: E was about the same height as R and he was an American!!

-

 **_#WHOISHOTBLONDE_ ** is trending by nightfall.

-

Marius shows up at the house again the next morning. This time, he doesn’t bother wearing a suit and he’s packed a bag.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I'm sure the London Eye doesn't actually lurch or clunk, but I had to do what I had to do to stop these dummies from smooching!!!! 
> 
> Please please leave comments and kudos if you enjoyed! I honestly go back and read them when I need motivation <3<3
> 
> Thank you so much for reading!!!
> 
> ALSO: I wrote a dumb thing about the R in this verse doing viral tiktok trends over on my tumblr, which can be found [here](https://areyoumiserableyet.tumblr.com/post/625470127103754241/r-viral-tiktok-trends-this-is-set-in-my-lover-of)for anyone interested!


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